“Have I startled you?” he asked curiously.  “I’ll put them back on again.”

“No, no; don’t do that!” She rallied herself to the point of laughing a little.  “I’m a goose.  You see, I’ve pictured you as quite different.  Have you ever seen yourself in the glass with those dreadful disguises on?”

“Why, no; I don’t suppose I have,” he replied, after reflection.  “After all, they’re meant for use, not for ornament.”

By this time she had mastered her confusion and was able to examine his face.  Under his eyes were circles of dull gray, defined by deep lines,

“Why, you’re worn out!” she cried pitifully.  “Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Not much.”

“You must take something for it.”  The mothering instinct sprang to the rescue.  “How much rest did you get last night?”

“Let me see.  Last night I did very well.  Fully four hours.”

“And that is more than you average?”

“Well, yes; lately.  You see, I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Yet you’ve given up your time to my wretched, unimportant little stupid affairs!  And what return have I made?”

“You’ve made the sun shine,” he said, “in a rather shaded existence.”

“Promise me that you’ll sleep to-night; that you won’t work a stroke.”

“No; I can’t promise that.”

“You’ll break down.  You’ll go to pieces.  What have you got to do more important than keeping in condition?”

“As to that, I’ll last through.  And there’s some business that won’t wait.”

Divination came upon her.

“Dad’s message!”

“If it weren’t that, it would be something else.”

Her hand went out to him, and was withdrawn.

“Please put on your glasses,” she said shyly.

Smiling, he did her bidding.

“There!  Now you are my beetle man again.  No, not quite, though.  You’ll never be quite the same beetle man again.”

“I shall always be,” he contradicted gently.

“Anyway, it’s better.  You’re easier to say things to.  Are you really the man who ran away from the street car?” she asked doubtfully.

“I really am.”

“Then I’m most surely sure that you had good reason.”  She began to laugh softly.  “As for the stories about you, I’d believe them less than ever, now.”

“Are there stories about me?”

“Gossip of the club.  They call you ’The Unspeakable Perk’!”

“Not a bad nickname,” he admitted.  “I expect I have been rather unspeakable, from their point of view.”

A desire to have the faith that was in her supported by this man’s own word overrode her shyness.

“Mr. Beetle Man,” she said, “have you got a sister?”

“I?  No.  Why?”

“If you had a sister, is there anything—­Oh, darn your sister!” broke forth the irrepressible Polly.  “I’ll be your sister for this.  Is there anything about you and your life here that you’d be afraid to tell me?”