“I don’t mean the gravestones.”
“Look! There’s a French inscription. And that name must be Flemish, see!”
“I haven’t time!”
“Why, what have you got to do?”
“I mean, you haven’t got time. It’s your wedding!”
“Don’t rub it in! What long grass! So we go to grass—all of us. Thanks for your Bible, by the way!”
So her apprehensions had been right. It was religion that was bemusing him.
“So glad you like it. Come along!” she said in rousing accents.
“All flesh is grass,” he maundered on. “And rank grass at that!”
“It’s only thick here because they can’t mow this bit,” she explained. “Too many tombs!” She plucked at his sleeve.