CHAPTER IV 
CHLOE AMONG THE BEES 
THE bee-mistress looked at my card, then 
put its owner under a like careful scrutiny. 
In the shady garden where we stood, the sunlight 
fell in quivering golden splashes round our feet. 
High overhead, in the purple elm-blossom, the bees 
and the glad March wind made rival music. Higher 
still a ripple of lark-song hung in the blue, and a 
score of rooks were sailing by, filling the morning 
with their rich, deep clamour of unrest. 
The bee-mistress drew off her sting-proof gloves 
in thoughtful deliberation. 
‘Tf I show you the bee-farm,’’ said she, eyeing 
me somewhat doubtfully, ‘‘ and let you see what 
women have done and are doing in an ideal feminine 
industry, will you promise to write of us with 
seriousness? I mean, will you undertake to deal 
with the matter for what it is—a plain, business 
enterprise by business people—and not treat it 
flippantly, just because no masculine creature has 
had a hand in it?” 
‘‘ This is an attempt,’’ she went on—the needful 
assurances having been given—‘‘an attempt, and, 
we believe, a real solution to a very real difficulty. 
There are thousands of educated women in the 
37. 
