She really got it out very well... "And so you live here?" she said, after a while. "In the vicinity," said I. "About a mile and a half away as the crow flies or a beer runs--the terms are synonymous, you know. Large, grey, creepered residence, four reception, two bed, six bath, commands extensive views, ten minutes from workhouse, etc., etc." "Is it 'White Ladies?'" "It is. From which you now behold me an outcast--a wanderer upon the face of the earth. But how did you know?" "They'll be quiet by now," she said, ignoring my question. "The bees, I mean." "I'm not so sure." She rose to her knees, but I laid a hand on her shoulder. "What are you going to do, lass?" "I shall be late for dinner." "Your blood be upon your head. The bees certainly will." "Nonsense." "I have no doubt they are at this moment going about like raging lions seeking upon whom they may swarm." "Must I pass your house?" "To get to the village you must." "Well I'm going, anyway." I rose also. She stared at me and her glad smile settled it. "One must die some time," said I, "and why not on a Wednesday?" It was with no little misgiving that I stepped out into the road, and walked beside her towards the village. As we approached White Ladies, a solitary bee sang by us and startled me. My nerves were on edge. I breathed more freely when we had passed the lodge gates. All was very still. The village lay half a mile further on. Suddenly she caught at my arm. Behind us came from a distance a faint, drowsy hum. Even as we listened, it grew louder. The next second we were running down the straight white road, hand in hand and hell for leather. She ran nobly, did the little girl. But all the time the hum was getting more and more distinct. I wondered if the village would ever come. It seemed as if someone had moved it since the morning. About the first house was the old Lamb Inn, with its large stable yard. There stood a lonely brougham, horseless with upturned shafts. The yard was deserted. She slipped on the cobbles, as we turned in, and almost brought me down. "Go on," she gasped. "I'll--" I picked her up and ran to the brougham. The humming was very loud. To fling open the door and push her in was the work of a moment. Then I stumbled in after her and slammed the door. As I pulled up the window, several bees dashed themselves buzzing against it. Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. We lay back against the cushions sobbing and gasping for breath, while more bees pattered against the windows. Presently I stole a glance at my companion. She was leaning back in her comer, still breathing hard with her eyes shut. But she seemed to know I was looking at her, for the soft lips parted in a smile. But she did not open her eyes. I laid a hand on her arm. "How's the ankle?" I said. "You turned it, didn't you?" "Yes, but it's not very bad, thanks. I think you saved my life."