“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—­”

“Than an unprotected man with a conscienceless flirt, who falls on his neck and then threatens to submerge him in tears.”

“Now you’re beginning again!” he wailed.  “What did you jump for, anyway?”

“I slipped.  An awful, red-eyed, scrambly fiend scared me—­a real, live, hairy devilkin on stilts.  He ran at me across the rock.  Was that one of your pet scarabs, Mr. Beetle Man?”

“That was a tarantula, I suppose, from the description.”

“They’re deadly, aren’t they?”

“Of course not.  Unscientific nonsense.  I’ll go up and chase him off.”

“Flying from perils that you know not of to more familiar dangers?” she taunted.

“Well, you see, with the tarantula out of the way, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t—­er—­”

“Go, and leave you in peace?  What do you think of that for gallantry, Birdie?”

The gay-feathered inquisitor had come quite near.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” he queried, cocking his curious head.

“He says he doesn’t like me one little, wee, teeny bit, and he wishes I’d go home and stay there.  And so I’m going, with my poor little feelings all hurted and ruffled up like anything.”

“Nothing of the sort,” protested the badgered spectacle-wearer.

“Then why such unseemly haste to make my path clear?”

“I just thought that maybe you’d go back on the top of the rock, where you came from, and—­and be a voice again.  If you won’t go, I will.”

He made three jumps of it up the boulder, bearing a stick in his hand.  Presently his face, preternaturally solemn and gnomish behind the goggles, protruded over the rim.  The girl was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, contemplating the scenery as if she’d never had another interest in her life.  Apparently she had forgotten his very existence.