The pig scrambled down, squeaking his delight, and the odd trio, all at cross-purposes and none aware of it but the girl, passed out through the gate and strolled down the road. Galatea was silent. The Artist glanced at her with a troubled look, but her head was bent and the flapping chiffon thing on her coils of mahogany-colored hair concealed her eyes from his view. The Artist’s star was in the ascendant, but he was the last who would have known it. It was a situation that called for blundering—and the Artist could be trusted to blunder.
“It was good of you to give me that chance with the pig,” he said.
“Reginald!” exclaimed the girl. “Reginald, run home, at once,” and she stamped her foot at the astonished pig.
With plaintive squeaks Reginald obeyed, making his short legs fly back over the road.
They walked on in silence until they had entered the shadows of the wood-road. Suddenly Galatea sat down on a stump, put her handkerchief to her eyes, and began to sob.
“Why, Galatea, what have I done!” The Artist turned pale. “Are you ill? Shall I go for help—for a doctor?”
An emphatic shake from the shapeless chiffon thing.
“Do you want to be alone? Shall I leave you?”
Another shake—and more sobs.
The Artist fell on his knees beside the stump and dared to take her hand.