Ah, now Maya felt sad again. Because she had thought of home. And she was about to drift off into homesick revery when she heard someone beside her say:
“Good morning. You’re a beast, it seems to me.”
Maya turned with a start.
“No,” she said, “decidedly not.”
There sitting on her leaf was a little polished terra-cotta half-sphere with seven black dots on its cupola of a back, a minute black head and bright little eyes. Peeping from under the dotted dome and supporting it as best they could Maya detected thin legs fine as threads. In spite of his queer figure, she somehow took a great liking to the stout little fellow; he had distinct charm.
“May I ask who you are? I myself am Maya of the nation of bees.”
“Do you mean to insult me? You have no reason to.”
“But why should I? I don’t know you, really I don’t.” Maya was quite upset.
“It’s easy to say you don’t know me.—Well, I’ll jog your memory. Count.” And the little rotundity began to wheel round slowly.