As I came along the withy bed to the wooden bridge to-night for a last look north-westward, I encountered a dim young woman, who stood in an attitude of extraordinary alertness, grasping a butterfly net and peering determinedly into the profundities of a hedge. Even as I reached her she made a clever little sweep with her weapon, and, holding it up against the exquisite spectacle beyond the downs, uttered a little satisfied noise and got out the killing bottle. On the bridge stood a man, a shortish man, in a soft hat, smoking a cigarette; he, too, carried the odious muslin bag. A pair of bicycles—male and female—assisted at the sorry sport, leaning, bored, against a rail. These entomologists, having smeared all the posts in the vicinity with a boiled mixture of treacle, brewing sugar, and essence of jargonel pear, were now filling in their time (until it grew dark enough for the Noctuas to come to the horrid bait) in netting such slow-flying Geometers as had the misfortune to cross their path.
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