"A true worm never turns into an insect," she informed him. "It goes creeping around through life, a worm and nothing more; while a caterpillar changes at last into a beautiful butterfly, or moth. This was a caterpillar once," she ended, raising the net with her captured prize for his inspection.
"You are a strange girl," observed the boy. "I never knew one before who cared about such things. Where did you learn it?"
"I get it from my father," responded she with pride. "He is Doctor William Raymond, a noted lepidopterist. He has been all over the world just to study butterflies. What does your father do?"
"Haven't got any." The boy thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared at her cheerfully.
"Haven't you? I am so sorry. It must be dreadful to be without a father," spoke Bee with genuine commiseration.
"Oh, I don't know. I guess from what I've heard that they are pretty much of a nuisance. You see they always want to handle the cash, and my mother and I would rather keep that in our own hands."
"I don't care to talk with you any longer," remarked Bee, turning away from him. "You say such awful things. My father isn't a nuisance, whatever yours may have been."
"Say! I didn't mean your father. I don't know anything about him. He may be all right. I never knew a father who was a lepi—what do you call 'em? They may be different. Does he let you have the money?"
"Of course not," answered Bee indignantly. "He gives me an allowance that I can spend as I please."
"That's all right. I think that is the proper thing," declared the lad, anxious to propitiate her. "It wouldn't do for me, you know, because I'm a man."