“Oh, that was a point of honor. Are you going to let those lovely purple ones wither on that prickly plant down there? Think how much better they’d look pinned on me—if there were any one here to see and appreciate.” If this were a hint, it failed of its aim, for, as the hermit scuttled out from his shelter, looking not unlike some bulky protrusive-eyed insect, secured the orchids, and returned, he never once glanced up. Safe again in his rock-bound retreat, he spoke:— “‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.’” “So you do know something of fairies and fairy lore!” she cried. “Oh, it wasn’t much more than a hundred years ago that I read my Grimm. In the story, only one call was necessary.” “Well, I can’t spare any more of my silken tresses. I brought a string this time. Where’s the other hair line?” “I’ve used it to tether a fairy thought so that it can’t fly away from me. Draw up slowly.” “Thank you so much, and I’m so glad that you are feeling better.” “Better?” “Yes. Better than the day before yesterday.” “Day before yesterday?” “Bless the poor man! Much anxious waiting hath bemused his wits. He thinks he’s an echo.” “But I was all right the day before yesterday.” “You weren’t. You were a prey to the most thrilling terrors. You were a moving picture of tender masculinity in distress. You let bashfulness like a worm i’ th’ bud prey upon your damask cheek. Have you a damask cheek? Stand out! I wish to consider you impartially. _You_ needn’t look at _me_, you know.” “I’m not going to,” he assured her, stepping forth obediently. “Basilisk that I am!” she laughed. “How brown you are! How long did you say you’d been here? A year?” “Fourteen weary Voiceless months. Not on this island, you know, but around the tropics.” “Yet you look vigorous and alert; not like the men I’ve seen come back from the hot countries, all languid and worn out. And you do look clean.” “Why shouldn’t I be clean?” “Of course you should. But people get slack, don’t they, when they live off all alone by themselves? Still, I suppose you spruced up a little for me?” “Nothing of the sort,” he denied, with heat. “No? Oh, my poor little vanity! He wouldn’t dress up for us, Vanity, though we did dress up for him, and we’re looking awfully nice—for a voice, that is. Do you always keep so soft and pink and smooth, Mr. Beetle Man?” “I own a razor, if that’s what you mean. You’re making fun of me. Well, _I_ don’t mind.” He lifted his voice and chanted:— “Although beyond the pale of law, He always kept a polished jaw; For he was one of those who saw A saving hope In shaving soap.” “Oh, lovely! What a noble finish. What is it?” “Extract from ‘Biographical Blurbings.’” “Autobiographical?” “Yes. By Me.” “And are you beyond the pale of law?”