Zephyr's face worked in undulations that in narrowing concentrics reached the puckered apex of his lips.
"Bees," he finally remarked, "are ding-twisted, ornery insects. They have, however, one redeeming quality not common to mosquitoes and black flies. If they sting with one end they make honey with the other. They ain't neither to be cussed nor commended. They're just built on them lines."
Firmstone looked thoughtful.
"I'm inclined to think you're right. If you're looking for honey you've got to take chances on being stung."
"Which I take to mean that you have decided to hive your bees in this particular locality."
Firmstone nodded.
Zephyr looked expectantly at Firmstone, and then continued:
"I also wish to remark that there are certain inconveniences connected with being an uncommonly level-headed man. There's no telling when you've got to whack up with your friends."
"All right." Firmstone half guessed at what was coming.
"Madame," Zephyr remarked, "having been deprived by the hand of death of her legal protectors, namely, Pierre and Morrison, wishes to take counsel with you."