"You'll have to take my arm," he remarked; "you are only shaky yet."
It was merely an excuse, but I did it to please him. Of course all the village knows what has happened, and a dozen friendly folk nodded, or smiled or shouted their congratulations according to the measure of their intimacy or reserve.
When we came in sight of my cottage the studio was nowhere to be seen, and, greatly surprised, I turned to the Cynic for an explanation, but he merely pressed my arm and said:
"Farmer Goodenough is there. He will tell you all about it."
I held my peace until we entered the field and stood by my late landlord's side. Explanation was unnecessary, for the field was still littered with splintered wood and broken glass, though much of it had been cleared away.
"So you're about again, miss! Well, I'm downright glad to see you." Then, indicating the débris with an inclination of the head: "I've sorted out all 'at seemed to be worth ought. All t' glass picturs 'at weren't reight smashed I've put into a box an' ta'en into t' 'ouse. But there isn't much left. Them 'at saw it say 'at t' stewdio cut up t' paddock like a hairyplane, an' it must ha' collapsed in t' same way."
"It knew it was doomed," remarked the Cynic, "supplanted—and it promptly put an end to itself."
"Well, never mind, miss," put in Reuben, "there's nought to fret about. 'Off wi' the old love an' on with the new!' I'd nearly put that down to t' Owd Book, but I should ha' been mista'en. However, ye've made a good swop, an' I don't know which on ye's got t' best o' t' bargain."
"I have, Reuben," said the Cynic heartily.
I wasn't going to contradict him, of course, though I know he is "mista'en."