None of the people were really anxious about it, but they quoted prophecies to make them thrill, fears of invasion, of submarines, tales of spies.
"You know it really brought it home to us when dear Mrs. De Burgho Keane was attacked by them—no, by the bees which Philip had put ready for them. That was a dreadful scare. It is all owing, no doubt, to Mr. Keefe's promptness"—Mrs. Brady flashed a smile which blended appreciation with the respect due to the official in authority upon Mr. Keefe—"that we are all sleeping in our beds now."
Darby looked at the large sofa and coughed thoughtfully.
Mr. Keefe, who was wrangling with Miss O'Toole because she thought "Violets" rather an old song, and he was determined to sing it, looked round nervously.
"He warned the Germans by wireless," said Darby earnestly, "that if they dared to come here he'd be waiting on the Seals Rock with his sword on.... He had time to gallop home for it ... and they put the Fleet's head nor'-east-south-south-west immediately."
Mrs. Brady replied absently that it must be nice to know exactly how they would alter things, and really now with this wireless to send messages by—they were regularly up to date at Kildrellan.
"If it's illness," said Darby, looking severely at Psyche, who was choking and weeping close by, "we also have a doctor, and if you're good, I'll tell you about the bees and Dearest's nose."
Miss O'Toole's spectacles glimmered severely at Mr. Keefe.
"I say sing something new," she said, "something from an opera. 'Violets' is full of sickly sentimentality—tarity—tallity—that's it, tallity. Now, say, 'The Honeysuckle and the Bee.'"
"They died of frostbite when I was a boy," said Darby. "Try forrard, Miss O'Toole."