But with these, as with the others, the real object of their desires was there, close by, under a wire cover which was not even veiled.

None took any note of it.

On the floor, a handful of butterflies were still hustling the bunch of leaves on which the female had reposed that morning; others, on the chair, were still examining the spot where the twig had lain.

The sun sank, and the hour of departure struck.

Moreover, the emanations were growing feebler, were evaporating.