“Here we are,” cried Carraways, halting at an apiary of the trimmest and prettiest order. “Here’s Bessy’s work-people. And I can tell you, charming it is to see them coming in and going out; and delightful to meet ’em in the fields—for upon my life, I sometimes think they know us—as they go bouncing, buzzing by.”
“I’m sure they know me, papa,” said Bessy; and then she modestly added—“at least I think so.”
“Ugh! They must know you,” said Colonel Bones; “bees, bees must be the best judges of flowers. Humph?”
“Delicious! A sweet thought, Colonel,” said Candituft. “Excellent!”
“It is very pretty,” cried Hodmadod, surveying the apiary. “So nicely thatched, too; so very snug. I call it”—said the baronet with authority—“I call it quite a bijou.”
“Do you, indeed?” asked Agatha, all smiles.
“I do,” said Sir Arthur; “that is, when I say a bijou, I mean—of course—a picture.”
“The inference is so plain,” said Miss Candituft, and she looked in that wild moment at the flushed Agatha as though she could have bitten her bold, red cheek.
“Wonderful creatures, bees!” cried Hodmadod. “Only to think that such little things should make all the wax candles!” There was a pause, when the modest baronet asked—“They do make all the wax candles, eh? don’t they?”
“Make everything in wax,” said Basil. “Wonderfully arranged, sir. The white bees make wax; and the black bees—the nigger bees—make pitch.”