"He was a very nice little bug.
I thought you'd like him."
Diane frowned. For every flower the minstrel brought, Philip contrived
a ridiculous parallel.
"How many times," she begged hopelessly, "must I tell you that I am not
collecting ridiculous bugs?"
Philip raised expressive eyebrows.
"Dear me!" said he in hurt surprise. "You do surprise me. Why, he's
the greenest bug I ever saw and he matches the van. He's a nomad with
the wild romance of the woodland bounding through him. I did think I'd
score heavily with him."
Diane discreetly ignored the inference. Whistling happily, Mr. Poynter
poured the coffee and leaned back against a tree trunk. Watching him
one might have read in his fine eyes a keener appreciation of nomadic
life--and nomads--than he ever expressed.
There was idyllic peace and quiet in this grove of ancient oaks shot
with the ruddy color of the sunset. Off in the heavier aisles of
golden gloom already there were slightly bluish shadows of the coming
twilight. Hungry robins piped excitedly, woodpeckers bored for worms
and flaming orioles flashed by on golden wings. Black against the sky
the crows were sailing swiftly toward the woodland.
With the twilight and a young moon Philip produced his wildwood pipe
and fell to smoking with a sigh of comfort.
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