"Why is it," she said with a quizzical smile, "that a woman is always afraid of a bull and a mouse?"
"They wish to be extreme, I fancy!" he laughed.
"Also there is a lot between a bull and a mouse that they are afraid of!" she added.
"Animate or inanimate?" he asked.
"Both," she answered.
Her hair was awry and she straightened it as best she could, removing her gloves to do it the better.
He remarked the long, slender fingers, with the filbert nails and the crescents shining at their base—and he stole a look at his own ill-shaped hand, with its thick, formless, heavy-pointed fingers and hairy back. For the first time he regretted the difference.
Her hair temporarily put to rights, she stuck the pins—which were scattered on the ground and which Porshinger collected for her—in her cocked hat, and fastened it into place. Then she got up, suffered him to brush the dust and dirt from her clothes—she helping—and they resumed the walk.
"Adieu, your Taurus Majesty!" she called, with a farewell wave of her hand toward the still indignant and frowning bull.
"I'll see that he is killed to-day," Porshinger volunteered.