"I--I'm ashamed. I didn't know."
"How should you?" he said, in a changed tone. "We Americans set up
monuments to our destroyers, not to our preservers, of life.
Nobody knows about Walter Reed and James Carroll and Jesse Lazear
--not even the American Government, which they officially served--
except a few doctors and dried-up entomologists like myself.
Forgive me. I didn't mean to deliver a lecture."
There was a long pause, which she broke with an effort.
"Mr. Beetle Man?"
"Yes, Voice?"
"I--I'm beginning to think you rather more man than beetle at
times."
"Well, you see, you touched me on a point of fanaticism," he
apologized.
"Do you mind standing up again for examination? No," she decided,
as he stepped out and stood with his eyes lowered obstinately.
"You don't seem changed to outward view. You still remind me,"
with a ripple of irrepressible laughter, "of a near-sighted frog.
It's those ridiculous glasses. Why do you wear them?"
"To keep the sun out of my eyes."
"And the moon at night, I suppose. They're not for purposes of
disguise?"
"Disguise! What makes you say that?" he asked quickly.
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