“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 what the Chinese ask. I used to have a Chinese cook, but he lost all my shirt studs, playing fan-tan. Can you play fan-tan? Two can’t play, though. They have funny cards in this country, like the Spanish. Have you seen a bullfight yet? Don’t do it. It’s dull and brutal. The bull has no more chance than—than—”
“Than an unprotected man with a conscienceless flirt, who falls on his neck and then threatens to submerge him in tears.”
“Now you’re beginning again!” he wailed. “What did you jump for, anyway?”
“I slipped. An awful, red-eyed, scrambly fiend scared me—a real, live, hairy devilkin on stilts. He ran at me across the rock. Was that one of your pet scarabs, Mr. Beetle Man?”
“That was a tarantula, I suppose, from the description.”
“They’re deadly, aren’t they?”
“Of course not. Unscientific nonsense. I’ll go up and chase him off.”
“Flying from perils that you know not of to more familiar dangers?” she taunted.
“Well, you see, with the tarantula out of the way, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t—er—”