I fell into talk with them, found them civil and, the man at any rate, most willing to speak of his hobby. He had marked the withy bed, it appeared, when passing one day, as a likely place for the Red Underwing, an insect which, he bade me note, looked very fine on the sugar. I refrained from saying that it would certainly look finer there than in his cursed cabinet, with a pin through its thorax and its wings set out stiffly at the correct entomological angle. It never does any good to be offensive. This man was a respectable citizen—one couldn't doubt it after looking for one moment on his short side-whiskers, his feeble moustache, his pince-nez and his pear-shaped head. He would be a teacher in a board school, or a grocer in a small way. He might even sell old furniture, or keep a little bookshop. But he had been a schoolmaster at one time of his life, I swear it. His particular manner is only acquired in one trade—and it never loses its hold on a man. Yes, it would have been a mistake to insult him. We are all vicious in spots, and because this admirable husband (he looked too careful to be a father) gave way to moth-killing, who was I (with a rod in my hand) to take him to task. He would only have grown pink, dignified, and hostile. But he would not have stopped treacling. Therefore I was friendly, offered a
