The Banded Monk 



utter indifference. Not a glance in her direc- 

 tion, not an enquiry. They all fly right to the 

 far end of the room, to the dusky corner 

 where I placed the tray and the cage. They 

 alight on the trellised top and explore it at 

 length, flapping their wings and hustling one 

 another a little. All the afternoon, until sun- 

 set, they dance around the deserted dome the 

 same saraband to which the actual presence 

 of the female would give rise. At last they 

 fly away, but not all of them. There are per- 

 sistent ones who refuse to go, rooted to the 

 spot by some magic attraction. 



A strange result indeed : my Moths hasten 

 to where there is nothing, take their stand 

 there and will not be dissuaded by the re- 

 peated warnings of their eyes; they pass with- 

 out stopping for a moment by the bell-glass 

 in which the female cannot fail to be per- 

 ceived by one or other of those coming and 

 going. Befooled by a lure, they pay no at- 

 tention to the real thing. 



What is it that deceives them ? The whole 

 of the night before and all this morning, the 

 female has sojourned under the wire-gauze 

 cover, either hanging to the trelliswork, or 

 resting on the sand in the pan. Whatever 



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