"In the vicinity," said I. "About a mile and a half away as the crow flies or a beer runs—the terms are synonymous, you know. Large, grey, creepered residence, four reception, two bed, six bath, commands extensive views, ten minutes from workhouse, etc., etc."
"Is it 'White Ladies?'"
"It is. From which you now behold me an outcast—a wanderer upon the face of the earth. But how did you know?"
"They'll be quiet by now," she said, ignoring my question. "The bees, I mean."
"I'm not so sure."
She rose to her knees, but I laid a hand on her shoulder.
"What are you going to do, lass?"
"I shall be late for dinner."
"Your blood be upon your head. The bees certainly will."
"Nonsense."