Expertise It was a pleasant spring day, and so Delphine and Barnabus had ordered sandwiches from the shop on the corner and taken them to the park on their lunch break. They had just about finished them when Delphine exclaimed softly.
“An American Lady!”
“A great deal of them, I should imagine,” Barnabus replied, rather puzzled.
“Very funny.”
“I am in earnest.”
“There,” she said, pointing, with a roll of her eyes.
“What am I inspecting?” he queried, “The bush. The company in the park. Help me out here, please.”
“No, the butterfly. It’s an American Lady,” she stared, still not believing his look of complete bafflement.
“Oh. I see. I think my mother called them painted ladies.”
“No, those are different. Very similar, but the undersides of their wings are noticeably different. There are other differences too, but that’s the most obvious.”
“Quite incredible.”
“I know, they’re so beautiful.”
“I meant you. And I do believe I win our little bet from the Japanese restaurant. Here is a subject on which you are quite clearly an expert, whilst I know absolutely nothing. And which marks you out as a scientist, no less.”
“I just know a few butterfly names.”
“You are an entomologist. And I’ll bet you’re a botanist too,” he insisted. It was so very hard to compliment Delphine, in spite of the myriad wonderful things about her. The moment he shone a spotlight on any of them, she had this terrible tendency to dismiss them as mere nothings. Her fluent French, her determination in life, and now this vast range of knowledge, in an area where he was completely at sea. “Walk with me around the park,” he requested, “and teach me to see it as you do.”