"Well," she challenged, "haven't you anything to say before the
court passes sentence of abandonment to your fate?"

"I'm thinking--frantically. But the thoughts aren't girl thoughts.
I mean, they wouldn't interest you. I might tell you about some of
my insects," he added hopefully.

"Heaven forbid!"

"They're very interesting."

"No. You're worthless as an augur, and a flat failure as a
conversationalist, when thrown on your own resources. So I shall
shake the dust from my feet and depart."

"Good-bye!" he said desolately. "And thank you."

"For what?"

"For making music in my desert."

"That's much better," she approved. "But you've paid your score
with the orchids. If you have one or two more pretty speeches like
that in stock, I might linger for a while."

"I'm afraid I'm all out of those," he returned. "But," he added
desperately, "there's the hexagonal scarab beetle. He's awfully
queer and of much older family even than Mr. Fitzwhizzle's. It is
the hexagonal scarab's habit when dis--"