Nay； I thought a little while later； he couldn’t be needling me。 Butterfly； like
the other master illustrators； obviously owed me a debt of gratitude： With
money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling； due to the wars and lack of
interest on the part of Our Sultan； the sole significant source of extra ine
had for some time been what they earned working for me。 I knew they were
jealous of one another over my attentions； and for this reason—but not only
for this reason—I met with them individually at my house； hardly a basis for
hostility toward me。 All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave
intelligently； to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were
obliged for their own profit。
To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation
wouldn’t be revisited； I said； “Oh； will His wonders never cease！ They’re able
to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down。”
Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth： “Due to the cold。”
Could this one actually kill a man； I wondered； for example； out of envy？
Might he kill me？ He had the following excuse： This man was debasing my
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religion。 Nay； but he’s a great master； a perfect embodiment of talent； why
should he resort to murder？ Age means not only straining oneself climbing
hills； but also； I gather； not being so afraid of death。 It means a lack of desire；
entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber； not in a fit of excitement； but out of
custom。 In a burst of intuition； I told him to his face the decision I’d made：