“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 obvious hostility 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 strode swiftly 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?”

This time it seemed as if the worm had turned; Eshley began striding away.

“Where are you going?” screamed Adela.

“To fetch implements,” was the answer.

“Implements?  I won’t have you use a lasso.  The room will be wrecked if there’s a struggle.”

But the artist marched out of the garden.  In a couple of minutes he returned, laden with easel, sketching-stool, and painting materials.

“Do you mean to say that you’re going to sit quietly down and paint that brute while it’s destroying my morning-room?” gasped Adela.