Armathwaite rummaged in the larder for a crust, chewed it, and, having thus appeased the laws of hygiene, lighted the first joyous pipe of the morning.
He was smoking contentedly in the garden when a bent, elderly man approached. Though twisted with rheumatism—the painful tribute which Mother Earth exacts from those of her sons who know how to obtain her chief treasures—this man quickened into a new life when he saw Armathwaite. He cast a sorrowing glance at the wilderness of weeds as he came up the garden path, but his weather-lined face broke into a pleasant smile as he halted in front of the new tenant.
"Good mornin', sir," he said, touching his hat, though the action was devoid of any semblance of servility. "Things are in a nice mess, aren't they?" and he wheeled round to gaze at dandelions rampant in a bed sacred to begonias.
"They are, indeed!" agreed Armathwaite, wondering what white-haired philosopher had come on the scene.
"You'll be Mr. Armathwaite, I'm thinkin'?" went on the other.
"Yes."
"My name's Smith, sir. Mr. Leadbitter, the policeman, told me you had taken on the Grange. Mebbe you'll be wantin' a gardener."
A light broke in on Armathwaite.
"Oh! Begonia Smith!" he cried. "Come back to the old love—is that it?"
"That's it, sir. She looks as if she wanted someone to look after her."