"Why can't they be named after me?" demanded Mrs. Batt.
"Because," I explained patiently, "they have already been named after me!"
"Couldn't something be named after me?" inquired that fearsome lady.
"The bats," suggested Brown politely, "we could name a bat after you with pleasure—"
I thought for a moment she meant to swing on him. He thought so, too, and ducked.
"A bat!" she shouted. "Name a bat after me!"
"Many a celebrated scientist has been honoured by having his name conferred upon humbler fauna," I explained.
But she remained dangerous, so I went and built the fire, and squatted there, frying bacon, while on the other side of the fire, sitting side by side, Kitten Brown and Angelica White gazed upon each other with enraptured eyes. It was slightly sickening—but let that pass. I was beginning to understand that science is a jealous mistress and that any contemplated infidelity of mine stood every chance of being squelched. No; evidently I had not been fashioned for the joys of legal domesticity. Science, the wanton jade, had not yet finished her dance with me. Apparently my maxixe with her was to be external. Fides servanda est.
That afternoon the heavy artillery held a council of war, and evidently came to a conclusion to make the best of the situation, for toward sundown they accosted me with a request for the raft, explaining that they desired to picnic aboard and afterward row about the lake and indulge in song.