A fresh breeze came from the ocean; the thunder of the surf was subdued to a drone. In the flowers a number of bees were busy, bees whose hives were placed against the side of the house. They were Vera's bees and there were two hives of them. Vera attended to them herself; they knew her and she was wont to declare that in no circumstances would they do her any harm. That was why, as Geoffrey dryly put it, she never got stung more than once a week.
"I believe one has been arguing with you now," Geoffrey laughed.
He was standing in the window as he spoke. He and Vera were the first two down. The girl was on the pavement gravely contemplating the palm of her right hand.
"No, indeed," she said. "And, anyway, it was my own fault."
"Irish," Geoffrey cried. "That makes the second since Monday. Let me see."
He took the little pink palm in his own brown hands.
"I can't see the spot," he said. "Does it hurt much?"
"A mere pin prick, dear. I suppose you can get innoculated against that sort of thing. I mean that you can be stung and stung until it has no effect at all."
"Even by bees that know you and never do you any harm," Geoffrey laughed. "But I dare say you are right. Five years ago when we had that plague of wasps Stenmore, the keeper, and myself destroyed over a hundred wasps' nests in one season. I must have been stung nearly a thousand times. After the first score I never noticed it; was not so bad as the touch of a nettle."
"What! Has Vera been arguing with the bees again?"