“Truly? Then life is indeed real and earnest. To have introduced something unscientific into that compendium of science—there’s triumph enough for any ambition. Besides, see how beautifully it scans.”
Again she beat time, and again the beggar crooked defensive fingers as she declaimed:—
“Scar-ab, tar-ant-u-la, doo-dle-bug, flea!”
Homeric, I call it. Perhaps you think you could improve on it.”
“Would you mind substituting ‘neuropter’ in the third strophe?” he ventured. “It would be just as good as ‘doodle-bug,’ and more—more accurate.”
“What’s a neuropter? You didn’t make him up for the occasion?”
“Heaven forbid! The dragon-fly is a neuropter. The dragon-fly we’re going to breed to a biplane, you know,” he reminded her slyly.
“Indeed! Well, I shall stick to my doodle-bug. He’s more euphonious. Now, repeat it.”
“Let me off this time,” he pleaded. “I’m all right—quite recovered. It’s only at the start that it’s so bad.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “But you’re not to forget it. And next time we meet you’re to be sure and say it over until you’re sane.”