"Go on," said Marion. "I am interested."
"I was going to say," Ralph remarked in his croaking voice, "that even those bees know how to protect themselves."
It was a lame conclusion and Marion said so. Geoffrey glanced at his uncle. As plainly as possible he read on the latter's face a desire to change the conversation.
It was sufficiently easy to turn the talk into another channel, and during the rest of the meal not another word came from Ralph Ravenspur. Once more he was watching, watching for something with his sightless eyes.
And Geoffrey was watching Marion most of the time. She was gentle and gay and sweet as ever, as if strong emotions and herself had always been strangers. It seemed hard to recall the stirring events of the night before and believe that this was the same girl. How wonderfully she bore up for the sake of others; how bravely she crushed her almost overwhelming sorrow.
She stood chatting on the pavement after breakfast. She was prattling gayly to Geoffrey, as the other gradually vanished on some mission or another. Then her face suddenly changed; her grasp on Geoffrey's arm was almost convulsive.
"Now then," she whispered. "Let us get it over."
Geoffrey strolled by her side along the terrace. They came at length to a spot where they could not be seen from the house. Marion turned almost defiantly.
"Now I am going to speak," she whispered.
"Not if it gives you any pain," said Geoffrey.