Then I perceived that my hands were wet.
Then I discovered that I was standing in a large pool of water.
Then I knew that the Spanish Jug leaked.
And a great cry broke from me in my agony.
My wife appeared, pallid. "Your jug leaks," I said.
"Tut!" said she, "so it does. What a mess! Well," she rang the bell for sponges and cloths, "it will still look nice on Victoria. And after all that was really what made you buy it."
To resume my broken thread.
All these things—the chimney of little Ottley, the Hanging Wood, the Island Willows, the Green Man (Dwarf it should be, so small is this public-house) and the rest—I found in their places. Each discovery filled me with greater and greater content. Nothing was altered. The Valley was just as I had known it, not a hedge gone, not a gate added, not a—Hold! What is this along the top of Lavender's garden wall? Gods and great Humphrey! Corrugated iron. Oh, John Lavender, John Lavender! Is there never a thatcher left in Clere Vale to save thee from this villainy? Oh, damned utilitarian! Oh, Vandal Lavender! Oh! Oh! and again Oh! Drive fast, good flyman, or I shall be writing in praise of thatch on walls of yellow mud, and never get to the cottage to-night.
