“Here,” he said gruffly, “’tis toothsome stuff.”
Peregrine took it from him. “I thank you heartily,” he made reply. Simon grunted, and went back to his seat. From it he watched Peregrine devour the bread and honeycomb, lick his fingers of the sticky sweetness. The simple meal finished, Peregrine looked across at his host.
“Will you give me your name?” asked Peregrine.
“Simon of the Bees, men call me,” was the reply given with a regal carelessness. Neither the regality, nor the would-be carelessness of the answer escaped Peregrine.
“A goodly title,” he responded, “to which I am doubtless indebted for a sweet meal.”
Simon grunted.
“I like bees,” said Peregrine.
Simon grunted again. It was his nearest approach to conversation. Peregrine took it as such.
“Diligent little atoms,” pursued Peregrine, “busy on their own pursuits. Faithful too; each choosing its own kind of flower it sticks to it like a true man to his love. Fearing no one, they dislike those that fear them, and show their dislike accordingly.”
Simon grunted a third time, but approvingly. He found in Peregrine an observer of his favourites. A silence endured a little space; then Simon put a question showing interest in his guest. This was marvel, had Peregrine but known.