Straight from the blue she dropped on May's last morning, swerved through the hum and racket of the Bees, poised with her smoke-grey wings a-whir, and lighted softly on the centre ledge, her ebony body mirroring the sun, her five gold girdles blazing.
Down dropped a Red King at her side. He stared at her right royally, and kept right royal silence, yet there was kindness in his yellow face, and kindness in the purr of his departure.
Down dropped a Black Queen in his place, and danced and hummed about her, and measured her slim-waistedness, and buzzed her disapproval.—"What is it?" asked she snappishly. "Why does it come in this get-up? Where has it left its furs?"
Down dropped a Red King at her side. He stared at her right royally
"It never had furs," said a voice behind her. It was her Mistress of the Robes.
"I know the family, Ma'am. Queer clothes, of course. But artists, Ma'am, artists to the toe-tips."
"Artists in what?" said the Black Queen.
"In Sand, Ma'am, in Sand. See, she's starting now."
"That's hive-bee's work," said the Black Queen contemptuously.