“O!” he said, quite suddenly agitated. “Come here and I’ll show you a picture.”
I let myself be drawn reluctant.
“Is it of the Scarlet Woman?” I said.
He started, and roared, “The Scarlet—!” then, conscious of his mistake, dropped his voice to a panic whisper.
“There’s no such moth,” said he. “If you mean heraclia dominula, the scarlet tiger, come and I’ll show you one.”
He persuaded me to sit by him on the roof slope, and gingerly opened the book away from me.
“Don’t touch,” he said. “It’s called Fasti Sanctorum Naturæ Cultoribus Proprii.”
“Is that Latin?” I asked.
“Yes,” he growled; but he looked at me rather curiously. “It means The Naturalist’s Calendar of the Saints. How did you know?”
“O, I know,” I said.