French Revolution if the French people had had bread."
Dolf found the illusion rather foggy. At his birth the fairies who deal out imagination had not bothered to measure him out any at all. He had done very little reading and had but a hazy background of history. He saw that Bert was nodding understandingly and that Bill's eyes were alight with interest. Plainly, at the moment, he was the small end of the party. He fixed his eyes on a point of the roof of the butterfly house and stared at it with a preoccupied expression.
"Ah!" Tom Woods was saying, "there's the Purple Emperor. Pretty thing, isn't he—but a queer taste when it comes to grub. He likes meat that's a bit ancient—bad, to be frank. There's no accounting for tastes. Some persons become preachers and some become bandits. Got any idea what you're going to do when you grow up?" He shot the question at Bill.
Bill shook his head, and held out his finger, and thrilled as a butterfly alighted upon it with curiously clutching feet.
Dolf came out of his self-imposed abstraction. "Bill's going to be a butterfly charmer," he giggled.
Bill looked at him a moment, and then his gaze went back to the fragile bit of splendor upon his finger. "I might do worse," he said slowly and thoughtfully.
