Wasn’t there possibly a mistake somewhere, though?  A second peep at the far-away back interpreted into the curve a suggestion of resigned waiting.  Maybe he had called, after all.  Thought being usually with Miss Brewster the mother of the twins, Determination and Action, she slipped downstairs and inquired of the three guardians of the door, in such Spanish as she could muster, whether a Mr. Perkins, wearing large glasses—­this in the universal sign manual—­had been to see her that day.

“Si, Senorita”—­he had.

Why, then, hadn’t his name been brought to her?

Extended hands and up-shrugged shoulders that might mean either apology or incomprehension.

Straightway Miss Brewster pinned a hat upon her brown head at an altogether casual and heart-distracting angle and sallied down into the tesselated bowl of the park.  Quite unconscious of her approach, until she was close upon him, her objective chatted fluently with the legless one, until she spoke quietly, almost in his ear.  Then it was only by a clutch at the bench back that he saved himself from disaster on his return to earth.

“Wh—­wh—­what—­wh—­where—­how did you come here?” he stuttered.

“Now, now, don’t be alarmed,” she admonished.  “Shut your eyes, draw a deep breath, count three.  And, as soon as you are ready I’ll give you a talisman against social panic.  Are you ready?”

“Y-yes.”

“Very well.  Whenever I come upon you suddenly, you mustn’t try to jump up into a tree as you did just now—­”

“I didn’t!”

“Oh, yes.  Or burrow under a rock, as you did the other day—­”

“Miss B-B-Brewster—­”

“Wait until I’ve finished.  You must turn your thoughts firmly upon your science, until you’ve recovered equilibrium and the power of human speech.”

“But when you jump at me that way, I c-c-can’t think of anything but you.”

“That’s where the charm comes in.  As soon as you see me or hear me approaching, you must repeat, quite slowly, this scientific incantation.”  She beat time with a pink and rhythmic finger as she chanted:—­

    “Scarab, tarantula, doodle-bug, flea.”

The beggar rapidly made the sign that protects one from the influence of the malign and supernatural.  The scientist scowled.

“Repeat it!” she commanded.

“There is no such insect as a doodle-bug,” he protested feebly.

“Isn’t there?  I thought I heard you mention it in your conversation with Mr. Carroll the other night.”

“You put that into my head,” he accused.

“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!”