“Truly? Then life is indeed real and earnest. To have introduced something unscientific into that compendium of science—there’s triumph enough for any ambition. Besides, see how beautifully it scans.” Again she beat time, and again the beggar crooked defensive fingers as she declaimed:— “_Scar_-ab, tar-_ant_-u-la, _doo_-dle-bug, _flea!_” Homeric, I call it. Perhaps you think you could improve on it.” “Would you mind substituting ‘neuropter’ in the third strophe?” he ventured. “It would be just as good as ‘doodle-bug,’ and more—more accurate.” “What’s a neuropter? You didn’t make him up for the occasion?” “Heaven forbid! The dragon-fly is a neuropter. The dragon-fly we’re going to breed to a biplane, you know,” he reminded her slyly. “Indeed! Well, I shall stick to my doodle-bug. He’s more euphonious. Now, repeat it.” “Let me off this time,” he pleaded. “I’m all right—quite recovered. It’s only at the start that it’s so bad.” “Very well,” she agreed. “But you’re not to forget it. And next time we meet you’re to be sure and say it over until you’re sane.” “Sane!” he said resentfully. “I’m as sane as any one you know. It’s the job of _keeping_ sane in this madhouse of the tropics that’s almost driven me crazy.” “Lovely!” she approved. “Well, now that you’ve recovered, I’ll tell you what I came out to say. I’m sorry that I missed you.” “Missed me?” he repeated. “Oh, you have missed me, then? That’s nice. You see, I’ve been so busy for the last three or four days—” “No; I haven’t missed you a bit,” she declared indignantly. “The conceit of the man!” “But you said you w-w-were sorry you’d—” “Don’t be wholly a beetle! I meant I was sorry not to see you when you came to call on me this morning.” “I didn’t come to call on you this morning.” “No? The boy at the door said he’d seen you, or something answering to your description.” “So he did. I came to see your father. He was out.” “What time?” “From eleven on.” “Father? No, I don’t think so.” “His secretary came down and told me so, or sent word each time.” She smiled pityingly at him. “Of course. That’s what a secretary is for.” “To tell lies?” “White lies. You see, dad is a very busy man, and an important man, and many people come to see him whom he hasn’t time to see. So, unless he knew your business, he would naturally be ‘out’ to you.” The corners of the young man’s rather sensitive mouth flattened out perceptibly. “Ah, I see. My mistake. Living in countries where, however queer the people may be, they at least observe ordinary human courtesies, one forgets—if one ever knew.” “What did you want of dad?” “Oh, to borrow four dollars of him, of course,” he replied dryly. “You needn’t be angry at me. You see, dad’s time is valuable.” “Indeed? To whom?” “Why, to himself, of course.” “Oh, well, my time—However, that doesn’t matter. I haven’t wholly wasted it.” He glanced toward the beggar, who was profoundly regarding the cathedral clock.