"I'm sorry," I said. "It all comes of beeing. If we hadn't been beeing—"
"And yet he doesn't look mad," she said musingly.
"I'm not mad," I said. "I admit that if I had on a bonnet, I should have several bees in it. Happily I lost it at the water jump. I'm a beer."
"A what?" she said, recoiling.
"A beer. At least I was one. Two other beers were with me—busy beers. Stay," I went on, "be of good beer—I mean cheer. I do not refer to the beverage of that name. By 'beer' I mean one actively interested in bees."
She looked more reassured.
"Why were you running?"
I spread out my hands.
"The beggars were at my heels."
"By which you mean—"