Nuova smiled wearily and sadly. "Of course, I am all right," she said gently; "who would not be out here in this wonderful world, this golden sunshine, this fragrant air? It's a place to be all right in all the time. I am going to stay here."
"Stay here? What do you mean?" asked Saggia.
"Simply that, dear Saggia," she replied gently, smiling; "stay right here in the warm sun, near the beautiful flowers. Do you think I am going back into the dark hive to die like that poor forager and be dragged off and tossed out like a piece of dirty wax?" She shuddered. "No, no; I am going to die out here, and lie in the soft grass under that heliotrope there."
Saggia spoke anxiously but sternly. "Die? Die? Why do you talk of dying? Have you a right to die yet? Have you done all you should do for the hive? Are you going to shirk your duty? Anyway"—and her voice grew more kindly—"do you really want to die? Don't you want to do first all the things a bee can do, to nurse—"
"I have nursed," Nuova interrupted.
"And make wax—" Saggia went on.
"I have made wax," Nuova broke in.
Saggia persisted, "And build cells—"
"I have built cells," interrupted Nuova again.
"And gather honey—" Saggia continued.