“How many of what, my beautiful one? Are you speaking of sea-gulls or crows?” “People of course!” answered the Moth irritably. “Did you think I meant flies?” “You’d have to count me out if you did,” replied her friend grimly. “For I don’t, and I believe it is a peculiarity shared by most of my species, at any rate those of the male sex, at all like being included in any plural category. Yes, indeed, my lovely one, I believe you’ll find, as your experience thickens and your years increase, that you’ll seldom meet a male who isn’t at heart, though under various circumstances he may not appear so, an ingrained individualist. When I was younger I used to flirt with the wanton notion that to be really ourselves we had to move about in circles. I also played with the spiritual thought, as I understand they call it, that only when there are two or three of us the wind can be cozened and coaxed and cajoled to carry us to particular places, to certain river-banks, for instance, and to certain ponds full of special sorts of rushes, where we can find those extra delicate morsels of refreshment which our exacting senses crave.
