Christopher lifted the latch and walked through a short passage to find Honor's uncle alone in the kitchen and talking to himself by snatches.
"Forgive me, Mr. Endicott," he said, breaking in upon the monologue; "I've no right to upset your reveries in this fashion, but I was passing and wanted a dozen words."
"And welcome, Yeoland. We've missed you at the Sunday supper of late weeks. How is it with you?"
"Oh, all right. Only just now I want to exchange ideas—impressions. You love my Honor better than anybody else in the world but myself. And love makes one jolly quick—sensitive—foolishly so perhaps. I didn't think it was in me to be sensitive; yet I find I am."
"Speak your mind, and I'll go on with my knitting—never blind man's holiday if you are a blind man, you know."
"You're like all the rest in this hive, always busy. I wonder if the drones blush when they're caught stealing honey?"
"Haven't much time for blushing. Yet 'tis certain that never drone stole sweeter honey than you have—if you are a drone."
"I'm coming to that. But the honey first. Frankly now, have you noticed any change in Honor of late days—since—well, within the last month or two."
Mr. Endicott reflected before making any answer, and tapped his needles slowly.
"There is a change," he said at length.