e in yo' society--if not intooding"--

Richling smiled candidly. "Your company's worth all it costs, Narcisse.
Excuse me; I always forget your last name--and your first is so
appropriate." It _was_ worth all it cost, though Richling could ill
afford the purchase. The young Latin's sweet, abysmal ignorance, his
infantile amiability, his artless ambition, and heathenish innocence
started the natural gladness of Richling's blood to effervescing anew
every time they met, and, through the sheer impossibility of confiding
any of his troubles to the Creole, made him think them smaller and
lighter than they had just before appeared. The very light of Narcisse's
countenance and beauty of his form--his smooth, low forehead, his thick,
abundant locks, his faintly up-tipped nose and expanded nostrils, his
sweet, weak mouth with its impending smile, his beautiful chin and
bird's throat, his almond eyes, his full, round arm, and strong
thigh--had their emphatic value.

So now, Richling, a moment earlier borne down by the dreadful shadow of
the Parish Prison, left it behind him as he walked and laughed and
chatted with his borrower. He felt very free with Narcisse, for the
reason that would have made a wiser person constrained,--lack of respect
for him.

"Mistoo Itchlin, you know," said the Creole, "I like you to call me
Nahcisse. But at the same time my las' name is Savillot." He pronounced
it Sav-_veel_-yo. "Thass a somewot Spanish name. That double l got a
twist in it."

"Oh, call it Papilio!" laughed Richling.

"Papillon!" exclaimed Narcisse, with delight. "The buttehfly! All
a-'ight; you kin juz style me that! 'Cause thass my natu'e, Mistoo
Itchlin; I gatheh honey eve'y day fum eve'y opening floweh, as the bahd
of A-von wemawk."

So they went on.

_Ad infinitum?_ Ah, no! The end was just as plainly in view to both from
the beginning as it was when, at length, the two stepping across the
street gutter at the last corner between Richling and home, Narcisse
laid his open hand in his companion's elbow, and stopped, saying, as
Richling turned and halted with a sudden frown of unwillingness:--

"I tell you 'ow 'tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin, I've p'oject that manneh
myseff; in weading a book--w'en I see a beaucheouz idee, I juz take a
pencil"--he drew one from his pocket--"check! I check it. So w'en I wead
the same book again, then I take notiz I've check that idee and I look
to see what I check it faw. 'Ow you like that invent