“What do I care? I’ve been stung by worse than insects.”
“And I also,” answered Clement, with such evident passion that the other grew a little interested. He had evidently pricked a sore point in this moody creature.
“Was it a woman stung you?”
“No, no; don’t heed me.”
Clement was on guard over himself again. “Your business is with bees”—his mother’s words echoed in his mind to the pulsing monotone of the swarm. He tried to change the subject, sent for a pail of water, and drew a large syringe from his bag, though the circumstances really rendered this unnecessary. But John Grimbal, always finding a sort of pleasure in his own torment, took occasion to cross-question Clement.
“I suppose I’m laughed at still in Chagford, am I not? Not that it matters to me.”
“I don’t think so; an object of envy, rather, for good wives are easier to get than great riches.”
“That’s your opinion, is it? I’m not so sure. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Going to be, I’ll wager, if you think good wives can be picked off blackberry bushes.”