was mistaken."
"I paint dairy cows, certainly," admitted Eshley,
"but I cannot claim to have had any experience in
rounding-up stray oxen. I've seen it done on a cinema
film, of course, but there were always horses and lots of
other accessories; besides, one never knows how much of
those pictures are faked."
Adela Pingsford said nothing, but led the way to her
garden. It was
normally a fair-sized garden, but it
looked small in
comparison with the ox, a huge mottled
brute, dull red about the head and shoulders, passing to
dirty white on the flanks and hind-quarters, with shaggy
ears and large blood-shot eyes. It bore about as much
resemblance to the
dainty paddock heifers that Eshley was
accustomed to paint as the chief of a Kurdish nomad clan
would to a Japanese tea-shop girl. Eshley stood very
near the gate while he
studied the animal's appearance
and
demeanour. Adela Pingsford continued to say nothing.
"It's eating a chrysanthemum," said Eshley at last,
when the silence had become unbearable.
"How observant you are," said Adela
bitterly. "You
seem to notice everything. As a matter of fact, it has
got six chrysanthemums in its mouth at the present
moment."
The necessity for doing something was becoming
imperative. Eshley took a step or two in the direction
of the animal, clapped his hands, and made noises of the
"Hish" and "Shoo"
variety. If the ox heard them it gave
no
outwardindication of the fact.
"If any hens should ever stray into my garden," said
Adela, "I should certainly send for you to
frighten them
out. You 'shoo'
beautifully. Meanwhile, do you mind
trying to drive that ox away? That is a MADEMOISELLE
LOUISE BICHOT that he's begun on now," she added in icy
calm, as a glowing orange head was crushed into the huge
munching mouth.
"Since you have been so frank about the
variety of
the chrysanthemum," said Eshley, "I don't mind telling
you that this is an Ayrshire ox."
The icy calm broke down; Adela Pingsford used
language that sent the artist
instinctively a few feet
nearer to the ox. He picked up a pea-stick and flung it
with some
determination against the animal's mottled
flanks. The operation of mashing MADEMOISELLE LOUISE
BICHOT into a petal salad was suspended for a long
moment, while the ox gazed with concentrated
inquiry at
the stick-thrower. Adela gazed with equal concentration
and more
obvioushostility at the same focus. As the
beast neither lowered its head nor stamped its feet
Eshley ventured on another
javelin exercise with another
pea-stick. The ox seemed to realise at once that it was
to go; it gave a
hurried final pluck at the bed where the
chrysanthemums had been, and
strodeswiftly up the
garden. Eshley ran to head it towards the gate, but only
succeeded in quickening its pace from a walk to a
lumbering trot. With an air of
inquiry, but with no real
hesitation, it crossed the tiny strip of turf that the
charitable called the croquet lawn, and pushed its way
through the open French window into the morning-room.
Some chrysanthemums and other autumn herbage stood about
the room in vases, and the animal resumed its browsing
operations; all the same, Eshley fancied that the
beginnings of a hunted look had come into its eyes, a
look that counselled respect. He discontinued his
attempt to
interfere with its choice of surroundings.
"Mr. Eshley," said Adela in a shaking voice, "I
asked you to drive that beast out of my garden, but I did
not ask you to drive it into my house. If I must have it
anywhere on the premises I prefer the garden to the
morning-room."
"Cattle drives are not in my line," said Eshley; "if
I remember I told you so at the outset." "I quite
agree," retorted the lady, "painting pretty pictures of
pretty little cows is what you're suited for. Perhaps
you'd like to do a nice
sketch of that ox making itself
at home in my morning-room?"