It was then that Gwendolyn recognized her. And leaned forward, holding out her arms. "Moth-er!" she plead. "Mother!"
Her mother did not hear. Or, if she heard, did not so much as lift her eyes from the bonnet. She tripped, regained her balance, and rushed past, hair wind-tossed, dress fluttering. At either side of her, smoke curled away like silk veiling blown out by the swift pace.
"Oh, she's burning!" cried Gwendolyn, in a panic of sudden distress.
The Doctor bent down. "That's money," he explained; "—burning her pockets."
"She can't see anything but the bee. She can't hear anything but the bee." It was Gwendolyn's father, murmuring to himself.
"The bee!"
Now the Bird came bouncing to Gwendolyn's side. "You've read that bees are busy little things, haven't you?" he asked. "Well, this particular so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect—"
"That's the very one!" she declared excitedly.
"—Is no exception."
"We must get it away from her," declared Gwendolyn. "Oh, how tired her poor feet must be!" (As she said it, she was conscious of the burning ache of her own feet; and yet the tears that swam in her eyes were tears of sympathy, not of pain.) "Puffy! Won't you eat it?"