Solemnly he began:—
“Scarab, tarantula, neurop—”
“‘Doodle-bug,’” she prompted severely.
“—doodle-bug, flea,”—
he concluded obediently.
“Scarab, tarantula, doodle-bug, flea. Scarab, tarantula, doodle—”
“Oof! I—I—didn’t think you’d be here so soon!”
He scrambled to his feet, hardly less palpitating than on the occasion of their first encounter.
“Hopeless!” she mourned. “Incurable! Wanted: a miracle of St. Vitus. Do stop nibbling your hat, and sit down.”
“I don’t think it’s as bad as it was,” he murmured, obeying. “One gets accustomed to you.”