The question came fresh and clear from behind the hives. Marion stood there, making a fair picture indeed in her white cotton dress. There was no shade of trouble in her eyes. She met Geoffrey's glance squarely.
Her hand rested on his shoulder with a palpably tender squeeze.
It was the only kind of allusion she made to last night's doings. She might not have had a single care or sorrow in the world. She seemed to take almost a childlike interest in the bees, the simple interest of one who has yet to be awakened to the knowledge of a conscience. Geoffrey had never admired Marion more than he did at this moment.
"Marion is afraid of my bees," Vera said.
Marion drew away shuddering from one of the velvety brown insects.
"I admit it," she said. "They get on one's clothes and sting for pure mischief. And I am a sight after a bee has been operating upon me. If I had my own way, there would be a fire here some day and then there would be no more bees."
They trooped into breakfast, disputing the point cheerfully. It was impossible to be downcast on so perfect a morning. Even the elders had discarded their gloom. Ralph Ravenspur mildly astonished everybody by relating an Eastern experience apropos of bees.
"But they were not like these," he concluded. "They were big black bees and their honey is poisonous. It is gathered from noxious swamp flowers and, of course, is only intended for their own food. Even those bees——"
The speaker paused, as if conscious that he was talking too much. He proceeded with his breakfast slowly.