"If I go over for a little while to listen to you, will you let me come home alone? I don't wish to be rude, Percival, but I am very unhappy."
"If you will come over for a time you may do anything you please," said the lad earnestly. "I am sorry if I seem to bother, but when I am troubled music puts everything all right. It's the same with mamma, and with old Heinrich, and with lots of people. I just believe that it will help you too, or I should not insist. Now, come, Butterfly."
"You are very nice to me, Percival," said Beatrice, touched. "Nicer than you ought to be, because I have not been good to you this morning. But I just can't be pleasant to any one."
"I know." The boy nodded his head sagaciously. "I feel that way too, sometimes."
"And, Percival, you must not call me Butterfly. Butterflies are pretty and only good-looking people should be called so. I have a cousin who is very beautiful. We always called her that, but they call me Bee."
"And bees make honey, don't they? I like honey, and I like bees. I think I like them better than I do butterflies. They have a sting, too, don't they?"
"Yes," answered the girl.
"You have too. That is, you can say some sharp things. I think bee suits you better than the other because you do things. I am going to call you Beefly. Butterflies never do anything, do they?"
"They don't need to do anything," sighed Bee. "It's only homely insects that need to work."
Percival made no answer, and silently they went through the orchard and across the field, and through the hedge into the garden beyond. Mrs. Medulla greeted them pleasantly, as they entered.