"She keeps very han'some, I will say." His smile grew still more ingratiating.
"Was you wishin' to speak wi' her?"
"Well, there! I was an' yet I wasn't. 'Tis terrible puzzlin'. You don't know me, I dessay."
"No, I don't."
"I be called Abe Bricknell—A-bra-ham Bricknell. I used to be Na'mi's husband, one time. There now"—with an accent of genuine contrition—"I felt sure 'twould put you out."
The tongue grew dry in William Geake's mouth, and the sunlight died off the road before him. He stared at a blister in the green paint of the garden-gate and began to peel it away slowly with his thumb-nail: then, pulling out his handkerchief, picked away at the paint that had lodged under the nail, very carefully, while he fought for speech.
"I be altered a brave bit," said Naomi's first husband, still with his silly smile.
"Come into th' house," William managed to say at last; and turning, led the way to the door. On his way he caught himself wondering why the hum of the bees had never sounded so loudly in the garden before: and this was all he could think about till he reached the doorstep. Then he turned.
"Th' Lord's ways be past findin' out," he said, passing a hand over his eyes.
"That's so: that's what I say mysel'," the other assented cheerfully, as if glad to find their wits jumping together.