The Orchid Collector's Death

Butterburn looked at his watch. Twenty-three minutes past day. I think I would rather be without so much excitement, said his housekeeper. It can't be good for you. Still, you see, nothing ever happens to me. When I was a little boy I never had accidents. I never fell in love as I grew up, never married. Something really remarkable. That orchid collector was only thirty-six, twenty years younger than myself when he died. He had had malarial fever four times and once he broke his thigh. And in the end he was killed by jungle leeches. Perhaps not.