Peregrine took it from him. “I thank you heartily,” he made reply. Simon grunted, and went back to his seat. From it he watched Peregrine devour the bread and honeycomb, lick his fingers of the sticky sweetness. The simple meal finished, Peregrine looked across at his host. “Will you give me your name?” asked Peregrine. “Simon of the Bees, men call me,” was the reply given with a regal carelessness. Neither the regality, nor the would-be carelessness of the answer escaped Peregrine. “A goodly title,” he responded, “to which I am doubtless indebted for a sweet meal.” Simon grunted. “I like bees,” said Peregrine. Simon grunted again. It was his nearest approach to conversation. Peregrine took it as such. “Diligent little atoms,” pursued Peregrine, “busy on their own pursuits. Faithful too; each choosing its own kind of flower it sticks to it like a true man to his love. Fearing no one, they dislike those that fear them, and show their dislike accordingly.” Simon grunted a third time, but approvingly. He found in Peregrine an observer of his favourites. A silence endured a little space; then Simon put a question showing interest in his guest. This was marvel, had Peregrine but known. “What brought you hither?” “Humph!” said Peregrine. “That is none too easy a question to answer. Maybe a dream, maybe a reality. At times I have thought that which brought me on my wanderings but the airy nothingness of which dreams are fashioned; at times I have known it for more, seen in my pursuit the one solid and sane action of my life.” Simon gave vent to his usual grunt. “You tell me little. What is it you pursue?” “A woman.” “I might have known it.” Simon laughed mockingly. “She is not as other women,” said Peregrine musing. “She has quiet eyes.” “Truly!” said Simon. “I saw her in a dream,” went on Peregrine. “Now I seek her.” Again Simon laughed. “On your own showing the quest savours of madness. A woman with quiet eyes, forsooth, once seen in a young man’s dream! An’ that is all you have to go on, how think you to find her?” “I know not,” said Peregrine very quiet. “Madness,” said Simon crossly. “Mayhap,” smiled Peregrine. “Sheer madness,” said Simon. “Quite possible.” “Huh!” grunted Simon, and relapsed into silence. Now and again he looked at Peregrine sitting on the mud floor in the dim firelight, his hands clasped round his knees. From him he looked at the fire, then back again at the man. Memory, long sleeping, was struggling to birth in his soul. The lines on his face quivered now and again in its travail. On a sudden he spoke. “I was once young.” “So are all men once,” said Peregrine very softly. “I too had my dreams,” said Simon gruffly. “They aid a man,” said Peregrine.