“Of course you’re not. That’s fine! As for your secrets, I dare say I wouldn’t know you again if I saw you.” 

 “Oh, wouldn’t you?” she cried in quite another tone. 

 “Quite likely not. These glasses, you see. They make things look quite queer.” 

 “Or if you heard me?” she challenged. 

 “Ah, well, that’s different. But I forget quite easily—even things like voices.” 

 She leaned forward, her hands in her lap, her eyes upon the goggled face before her. 

 “Then take them off.” 

 “What? My glasses?” 

 “Take them off!” 

 “Wh—wh—why should I?” 

 “So that you can see me better.” 

 “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 

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