He pauses half-way for a reply, but it is long in coming. Only the humming of the bees disturbs the silence of the room.
"Then you leave here?" he concludes at last.
"Yes. It is only the male Pemberthys who rule," she says.
"Your—your children?"
"My one little boy, my dear Algy, died before his father. It was a great disappointment to my husband that he should die. We female Pemberthys," she says, with a sudden real bright little smile that settles down into sadness again very quickly, "do not count for a great deal in the family."
"How long has Mr. Pemberthy been dead?"
"Six months."
"You are left poor?" he says, very quickly now.
"I—I don't think you have a right to ask me such a question, sir."
"I have no right," he replies. "These are foreign manners. Excuse them, please; don't mind me."