“Don’t bark. They’d be most effective. And they certainly give your face a truly weird expression, in addition to its other detriments.” “If you don’t like my face, consider my figure,” he suggested optimistically. “What’s the matter with that?” “Stumpy,” she pronounced. “You’re all in a chunk. It does look like a practical sort of a chunk, though.” “Don’t you like it?” he asked anxiously. “Oh, well enough of its kind.” She lifted her voice and chanted:— “He was stubby and square, But _she_ didn’t much care. “There’s a verse in return for yours. Mine’s adapted, though. Examination’s over. Wait. Don’t sit down. Now, tell me your opinion of me.” “Very musical.” “I’m not musical at all.” “Oh, I’m considering you as a _voice_.” “I’m tired of being just a voice. Look up here. Do,” she pleaded. “Turn upon me those lucent goggles.” When orbs like thine the soul disclose, Tee-deedle-deedle-dee. Don’t be afraid. One brief fleeting glance ere we part.” “No,” he returned positively. “Once is enough.” “On behalf of my poor traduced features, I thank you humbly. Did they prove as bad as you feared?” “Worse. I’ve hardly forgotten yet what you look like. Your kind of face is bad for business.” “What _is_ business?” “Haven’t I told you? I’m a scientist.” “Well, I’m a specimen. No beetle that crawls or creeps or hobbles, or does whatever beetles are supposed to do, shows any greater variation from type—I heard a man say that in a lecture once—than I do. Can’t I interest you in my case, O learned one? The proper study of mankind is—” “Woman. Yes, I know all about that. But I’m a groundling.” “Mr. Beetle Man,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “the rock is moving.” “I don’t feel it. Though it might be a touch of earthquake. We have ’em often.” “Not your rock. The tarantula rock, I mean.” “Nonsense! A hundred tarantulas couldn’t stir it.” “Well, it seems to be moving, and that’s just as bad. I’m tired and I’m lonely. Oh, please, Professor Scarab, have I got to fall on your neck again to introduce a little human companionship into this conversation?” “Caesar! No! My shoulder’s still lame. What do you want, anyway?” “I want to know about you and your work. _All_ about you.” “Humph! Well, at present I’m making some microscopical studies of insects. That’s the reason for these glasses. The light is so harsh in these latitudes that it affects the vision a trifle, and every trifle counts in microscopy.” “Does the microscope add charm to the beetle?” “Some day I’ll show you, if you like. Just now it’s the flea, the national bird of Caracuña.” “The wicked flea?” “Nobody knows how wicked until he has studied him on his native heath.” “Doesn’t the flea have something to do with plague? They say there’s plague in the city now. You knew all about the Dutch. Do you know anything about the plague?” “You’ve been listening to _bolas_.” “What’s a _bola?_”