stens with attention and pleasure. The wily butterfly sees he is making progress. He goes on flattering, then risks a few words of love.
'Ah!' sighs the lily, 'if you were not a fickle butterfly, I might believe half of what you say!'
'You do not know me!' he exclaims indignantly. 'I have only the shape of a butterfly; I have not the heart of one. How could I be unfaithful to you if you loved me? Are you not the most beautiful of flowers? How could it be possible for me to prefer any other to you? No, no; for the rest of my life there will be but the lily for me.'
The vanity of the lily is flattered, she believes him, and gives herself up to the passionate embrace of the butterfly.
'Oh, beloved one,' she exclaims in ecstasy, 'you will love me for ever; you will always be mine as I am yours!'
'To tell you the truth, my dear lily,' says the butterfly coolly, 'you are very nice, but your perfume is rather strong, a little vulgar, and one gets tired of it quickly. I am not sure