“I don’t want to be stung,” said cook nervously. “Wasps always make straight for me!”
The crowd stopped at a house facing the green, and there the hullabaloo increased to such an extent that Mr. Gleeson, finding his cap, announced an intention of putting a stop to the row without further delay. The women expected the turmoil would cease directly he reached the scene; they observed that he spoke to one or two, remonstrating with them; the folk seemed to be making an explanation, and he again used argumentative gestures; they appeared to order him to go away and, after one or two further efforts, he retired. The uproar continued.
“Not bees,” he announced, entering the room. “No! My dear, just send the maids to the kitchen.”
The girls went.
“A primitive custom,” he explained, “with which I was not previously acquainted. It seems a retired farmer living at the house in question lost his wife three months ago.”
“Surely a strange way of expressing sympathy.”
“That is not exactly the idea. The retired farmer has married again—married the nurse, and the village thinks it not quite right.”
“It isn’t right,” she declared warmly. “I consider the villagers are quite justified in their action.”
“I don’t agree with you, dear.”
“If I died,” she contended, “and you married again in such a short time, I should be very much gratified in looking down to find that people—”