“Why ever don’t they sting yer?” asked Lilac, shrinking away.
“They know I like ’em,” answered Peter, returning to his flowers. “They know a lot, bees do.”
“I s’pose they’re used to see you sitting here?” said Lilac.
Peter nodded. “They’re rare good comp’ny too,” he said, “when you can follow their carryings on, and know what they’re up to.”
Lilac watched him thoughtfully as his large hand moved carefully amongst the flowers, cutting the best blossoms and adding them to the nosegay, which now began to take the shape of a large fan.
While he had been talking of the bees his face had lost its dullness; he had not looked stupid at all, and scarcely ugly. She would try and make him speak again.
“The blossoms is over now,” she remarked, looking at the trees in the orchard; “but there’s been a rare sight of ’em this year.”
“There has so,” answered Peter. “It’ll be a fine season for the fruit if so be as we get sun to ripen it. The birds is the worst,” he went on. “I’ve seen them old jaypies come out of the woods yonder as thick as thieves into the orchard. I don’t seem to care about shootin’ ’em, and scarecrows is no good.”
What a long sentence for Peter!
“Do they now?” said Lilac sympathisingly. “An’ I s’pose,” stroking Tib on the head, “they don’t mind Tib neither?”