“Have you been to Ireland? The climate is appalling. Nothing but mist.” “What is your objection to mist?” I regarded him with the same disdain with which I had beheld my first Turkish toilet. “It is gloomy. Butterflies like the sun. Ireland is for the moth people.” “You are a lepidopterist,” he said repressively. “You are not supposed to discriminate against moths.” “I am entitled to my prejudices,”
