“As long as you stayed where you belonged—Excuse me—I don’t mean to be impolite—but I—I—You see—as long as you were just a voice, I could manage all right, but now that you are—er—er—you—” His speech trailed off lamentably into meaningless stutterings. The girl turned amazed and amused eyes upon him. “What on earth ails the poor man?” she inquired of all creation. “I told you. I—I’m shy.” “Not really! I thought it was a joke.” “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit? Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” demanded the yellow-breasted inquisitor, from his flowery perch. “What does he say? He says he’s shy. Poor poo—er young, helpless thing!” And her laughter put to shame a palm thrush who was giving what he had up to that moment considered a highly creditable musical performance. “All right!” he retorted warmly. “Laugh if you want to! But after stipulating that we should be strangers, to—to act this way—well, I think it’s—it’s—forward. That’s what I think it is.” “Do you, indeed? Perhaps you think it’s pleasant for me, after I’ve opened my heart to a stranger, to have him forced on me as an acquaintance!” From the depths of those limpid eyes welled up a little film of vexation. “O Lord! Don’t do that!” he implored. “I didn’t mean—I’m a bear—a pig—a—a—a scarab—I’m anything you choose. Only don’t do that!” “I’m not doing anything.” “Of course you’re not. That’s fine! As for your secrets, I dare say I wouldn’t know you again if I saw you.” “Oh, wouldn’t you?” she cried in quite another tone. “Quite likely not. These glasses, you see. They make things look quite queer.” “Or if you heard me?” she challenged. “Ah, well, that’s different. But I forget quite easily—even things like voices.” She leaned forward, her hands in her lap, her eyes upon the goggled face before her. “Then take them off.” “What? My glasses?” “Take them off!” “Wh—wh—why should I?” “So that you can see me better.” “I don’t want to see you better.” “Yes, you do. I’m much more interesting than a scarab.” “But I know about scarabs and I don’t know about—about—” “Girls. So one might suspect. Do you know what I’m doing, Mr. Beetle Man?” “N-n-no.” “I’m flirting with you. I never flirted with a scientific person before. It’s awfully one-sided, difficult, uphill work.” This last was all but drowned out in his flood of panicky instructions, from which she disentangled such phrases as “first to left”—“dry river-bed-hundred-yards”—“dead tree—can’t miss it.” “If you send me away now, I’ll cry. Really, truly cry, this time.” “No, you won’t! I mean I won’t! I—I’ll do anything! I’ll talk! I’ll make conversation! How old are you? That’s what the Chinese ask. I used to have a Chinese cook, but he lost all my shirt studs, playing fan-tan. Can you play fan-tan? Two can’t play, though. They have funny cards in this country, like the Spanish. Have you seen a bullfight yet? Don’t do it. It’s dull and brutal. The bull has no more chance than—than—”