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
outward indication 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.
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