“Tell me who it is you wish to see.”
“Mammee send me wid dese flowehs....”
“Oh! But how scrumptious.”
“It strange how dey call de bees; honeybees, sweat-bees, bumble-bees an’ all!” she murmured, shaking the blossoms into the air.
“That’s only natural,” he returned, his hand falling lightly to her arm.
“Madame Ruiz is in?”
“She is: but she is resting; and something tells me,” he suavely added, indicating a grassy bank, “you might care to repose yourself too.”
And indeed after such a long and rambling course, she was glad to accept.
“De groung’s as soft as a cushom,” she purred, sinking with nonchalance to the grass.