When he gained the path, she had risen from the chair, and was running bareheaded in his direction. He did not for an instant see more than that, more than that she was running; and he wondered. Then he saw her face, and her voice reached him, and he realised that she was running for help.
So they ran towards each other for five, perhaps ten seconds, she as if pursued, and he seeking the cause.
"A wasp," she panted, "in my hair! A wasp! Get it out!"
"A wasp?" Why must one always echo in emergencies? He called himself a fool. "Don't be frightened. Keep still. I'll get it out in a minute."
"Quick, quick!" she said, pulling at her hair frantically; "I shall go mad!"
"Keep still," he repeated. "Take your hands down—it'll sting you."
He could hear the angry buzzing of the thing, but it was entangled, hidden, and her hair dizzied him. She found the diffidence of his touches exasperating.
"Take the pins out," she cried; "yes, yes, take them out. Oh! not like that, be quick!"
Her impatience showed his breathlessness the way. He fought reverence down, and tore them out as fast as she. Her hair rained over his hands, and swept his arms. The wasp gave a last buzz venomously. "Oh, thank you so much! I hope, I do hope, you aren't stung?" she said.
"Stung?" He was faint, shaken by a hurricane of new and strange emotion. "It's all right, thanks."