“Those whom fate has rent asunder, let no man join together again,” he observed.—“Who are you?”
“Maya, of the nation of bees.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I have nothing against the bees.—Why are you sitting about? Bees don’t usually sit about. Have you been sitting there long?”
“I slept here.”
“Indeed!” There was a note of suspicion in Bobbie’s voice. “I hope you slept well, very well. Did you just wake up?”
“Yes,” said Maya, who had shrewdly guessed that Bobbie would not like her having overheard his conversation with Effie, the cricket, and did not want to hurt his feelings again.
Bobbie ran hither and thither trying to look up and see Maya.
“Wait,” he said. “If I raise myself on my hind legs and lean against that blade of grass I’ll be able to see you, and you’ll be able to look into my eyes. You want to, don’t you?”
“Why, I do indeed. I’d like to very much.”
Bobbie found a suitable prop, the stem of a buttercup. The flower tipped a little to one side so that Maya could see him perfectly as he raised himself on his hind legs and looked up at her. She thought he had a nice, dear, friendly face—but not so very young any more and cheeks rather too plump. He bowed, setting the buttercup a-rocking, and introduced himself: