“I see, I see,” he said. “It is the lichen.”
This explanation was not as satisfying as he evidently meant it to be. Martha looked more puzzled than ever. Primmie looked frightened.
“WHAT did he say 'twas?” she whispered. “'Tain't catchin', is it, Miss Martha?”
“It is the lichen from the tombstones,” went on Galusha. “Most of them were covered with it. In order to read the inscriptions I was obliged to scrape it off with my pocketknife, and the particles must have blown in my face and—ah—adhered. Perhaps—ah—some soap and water might improve my personal appearance, Miss Phipps. If you will excuse me I think I will try the experiment.”
He rose briskly from the sofa. Primmie stared at him open-mouthed.
“Ain't there NOTHIN' the matter with you, Mr. Bangs?” she asked. “Is the way your face is tittered up just dirt?”
“Just dirt, that's all. It came from the old tombstones in the cemetery.”
Primmie's mouth was open to ask another question, but Miss Phipps closed it.
“Stop, Primmie,” she said. Then, turning to Galusha who was on his way to the stairs, she asked:
“Excuse me, Mr. Bangs, but have you been spendin' this lovely forenoon in the graveyard?”