He wondered why on earth Clarice couldn't have helped him a little, and then as if in response to his deep instinctive demand upon her, he heard her call softly to her husband from the door of the house.

At the scrape of Julian's chair on the terrace tiling, Peter cast away his cigar and hurried into the dusk of the garden.
He found her at last by the herbacious border, keeping touch with the flight of a sphinx-head moth along the tall white rockets of phlox.
Peter whipped out his handkerchief and dropped it deftly over the fluttering wings.

In a moment he had stilled them in his hand.

Miss Goodward cried out to him: "You've spoiled his happy evening!" "He's not hurt...." Peter laid the moth gently on a feathery flower head, and the tiny whispering whirr began again.

"I thought you wanted him." "I did--but not to catch him," Miss Goodward explained.