“Good God,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Sphinx convolvuli,” said Mr. Chorlton, “come all the way from Africa; and you three rascals pounce on him as soon as he arrives.” He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a large glass-bottomed pill-box. We should not have been more surprised if he had produced a white rabbit or a cage of singing canaries; for although we were aware that Mr. Chorlton knew all about Greek accents we didn’t expect him to know anything about moths. “Now listen,” he said. “If Dicks nets him in his rugger-forward fashion he’ll spoil him as sure as eggs is eggs. I’ll box him for you. But in case I muff it Dick with his net must stand in the slips and you others at point and long stop.”

We watched breathlessly while Mr. Chorlton with miraculous calm persuaded the great moth into the pill-box. He handed it to Dick. “Lucky beggar,” he said. “In thirty long years I’ve never found one.”

“But, sir, we didn’t know you were a bughunter!” It was as if Zeus himself had come down to earth and we mortals, discovering his divinity, had exclaimed in awe: “We didn’t know you were a god!”

“Come back to the cottage,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”

The cottage lay among shrubberies of rhododendrons and its garden was full of flowers, pentstemon and tobacco-flower and valerian, which we were sure had been planted specially for the moths. He took us inside and sat us down in a room which was lined with books from ceiling to floor. We had never seen so many books in a room before. They mostly had Latin and Greek titles, and it seemed to us that all the wisdom in the world was enclosed between those four walls. Mr. Chorlton said: “I’ll go and get the key of the cabinet,” and he left us free to explore the wonderful room. There was a net standing in the corner; and next to it a fishing-rod. In a jar on the window-still some caterpillars which none of us could recognise nibbled a sprig of birch. And Dick, wandering round the room, discovered a photograph entitled “Somerset C.C., 1895,” with Mr. Chorlton, in flannels and cricket-cap, sitting in the front row.

He came back and opened the cabinet doors. The glass-topped drawers slid out silently one by one while we stood and gasped. There were long rows of Swallow-tails, Clouded Yellows, tawny Fritillaries in infinite variety; Blues in every shade from pale azure to the kingfisher’s own colour: hundreds of little Skippers; and then the Hawks, a whole row of Death’s Heads, olive-shaded Limes, Poplars ranging from palest grey to burnt sienna, Eyed Hawks with sunset-flushed hindwings, exquisite pink Elephants (not those that topers see!) Bee Hawks and Humming Birds. But there was a gap above the label “Sphinx convolvuli”; and Dick, gulping hard and trembling with the ecstasy of glorious martyrdom, said suddenly: “You have him, sir! Put him in that space!”

“No,” said Mr. Chorlton; but hesitantly.

“Please,” begged Dick; as a man might offer up his one, his only ewe-lamb as a burnt offering to a god, and yet the cry escapes him, “Please, please take it quickly, lest I repent!”

Mr. Chorlton, who was infinitely wise and who knew all this, didn’t hesitate any longer. He said: “I’ll keep him, then, because I’ve got a cabinet to keep him in; but he’s still yours and you can come and see him whenever you want to. And now,” he added, “we’ll celebrate the capture of the first living Convolvulus Hawk Moth I’ve ever seen.” He went to the sideboard and fetched glasses and bottles. For himself he poured out a glass of port; for us, fizzy lemonade, into which he tipped enough port to make it pink. “This wine,” he said, “is Mr.