"Matilda," yelped George Freyne, "send someone!"
"There are no Germans, only bees," called Dayly loudly. "An' we are all picked and bit sorryful, Ma'am."
"Bees!" Mrs. Freyne saw the hives. "Professor, someone has put two hives at the door, and Dearest George is in the bushes. Dearest, what am I to do?"
George put forth a swollen face to deliver orders, to cry for men and bee dresses. To pray that veiled rescuers should be sent to them and gauze veils—anything to escape the bees.
Mrs. Freyne, obliged to ask advice, hurried to the Professor. A stifled yell and a crash told that the enemy had gone inside, and the hall door was slammed, promises of aid being presently shrilled from the upper windows.
"We are getting transparent things, Dearest. You are sure there is no danger? My net skirt, do you think? Oh, dear!"
The enraged bees sighted new worlds to conquer as they sped out at Violet Weston and Mr. Keefe, who were riding quietly across the lawn, the result being—four gaitered legs described some circles and curves, and two people dived wildly from their saddles and ran.
"If you ask Dearest George what to do," advised Mrs. Freyne from the upper window—"he is under the laurels—he'll tell you."
Mrs. Weston crashed to covert with a shriek, followed by Mr. Keefe swearing fluently, and plucking bees from his collar; these he stamped on, but they had stung him first.
A variety of advising onlookers began to collect cautiously on the avenue, all advising at the same time.