“No. It’s my own hat. Why did you run away from him?” 

 “He bored me. When people bore me, I always run away. I’m beginning to feel quite fugitive this very minute.” 

 There was silence below, a silence that piqued the girl. 

 “Well,” she challenged, “haven’t you anything to say before the court passes sentence of abandonment to your fate?” 

 “I’m thinking—frantically. But the thoughts aren’t girl thoughts. I mean, they wouldn’t interest you. I might tell you about some of my insects,” he added hopefully. 

 “Heaven forbid!” 

 “They’re very interesting.” 

 “No. You’re worthless as an augur, and a flat failure as a conversationalist, when thrown on your own resources. So I shall shake the dust from my feet and depart.” 

 “Good-bye!” he said desolately. “And thank you.” 

 “For what?” 

 “For making music in my desert.” 

 “That’s much better,” she approved. “But you’ve paid your score with the orchids. If you have one or two more pretty speeches like that in stock, I might linger for a while.” 

 “I’m afraid I’m all out of those,” he returned. “But,” he added desperately, “there’s the hexagonal scarab beetle. He’s awfully queer and of much older family even than Mr. Fitzwhizzle’s. It is the hexagonal scarab’s habit when dis—” 

 “We have an encyclopaedia of our own at home,” she interrupted coldly. “I didn’t climb this mountain to talk about beetles.” 

 “Well, I’ll talk some more about you, if you’ll give me a little time to think.” 

 “I think you are very impertinent. I don’t wish to talk about myself. Just because I asked your advice in my difficulties, you assume that I’m a little egoist—” 

 “Oh, please don’t—” 

 “Don’t interrupt. I’m very much offended, and I’m glad we are never going to meet. Just as I was beginning to like you, too,” she added, with malice. 

 Prev. P 11/148 next