“Jealous! Rubbish! Look, Drew!” cried Oliver, as a huge moth as big across the wings as a dinner plate flapped gently along the shadowy way beneath the trees, now nearly invisible, now plainly seen threading its way through patches which looked like showers of silver rain. “Who can be jealous of another’s luck when he is overwhelmed with luck of his own?”
“Hi! Stop! None of that!” cried Panton, catching Oliver by the arm, as he snatched off his sun helmet and was dashing forward through the forest.
“What’s the matter?”
“That’s what I want to know. Are you mad to go dashing off, hat in hand, after a butterfly here in this dangerous place, as if you were a boy out on a Surrey Common?”
“Bother! It isn’t a butterfly.”
“What is it, then?”
“The grandest Atlas moth I ever saw.”
“I don’t care, you’re not going to make yourself raging hot running after that. I want you to come and see my find.”
Oliver stood looking after the shadowy moth as it went on in and out among the trunks of the trees till it reached a tunnel-like opening, full of sunshine. Up this, after pausing for a moment or two, balanced upon its level outstretched wings, it seemed to float on a current of air and was gone.
“You’ve made me miss a glorious prize,” said Oliver sadly.