There was a long pause, which she broke with an effort.
“I—I’m beginning to think you rather more man than beetle at times.”
“Well, you see, you touched me on a point of fanaticism,” he apologized.
“Do you mind standing up again for examination? No,” she decided, as he stepped out and stood with his eyes lowered obstinately. “You don’t seem changed to outward view. You still remind me,” with a ripple of irrepressible laughter, “of a near-sighted frog. It’s those ridiculous glasses. Why do you wear them?”
“And the moon at night, I suppose. They’re not for purposes of disguise?”
“Disguise! What makes you say that?” he asked quickly.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”