Mr. Hurst had been taking tea with Aggie one market-day. The others were all out, and he had the field to himself. She always remembered just how he looked when he did it. He was standing on the white mohair rag in the drawing-room, and was running his fingers through his hair for the third time. He had been telling her how he had first taken up sheep-farming in Australia, how he’d been a farm-hand before that in California, how he’d always set his mind on that one thing—sheep-farming—because he had been born and bred in the Cotswolds. Aggie’s dark-blue eyes were fixed on him, serious and intent. That flattered him, and the gods, for his undoing, dowered him with a disastrous fluency.
He had a way of thrusting out his jaw when he talked, and Aggie noted the singular determination of his chin. It was so powerful as to be almost brutal. (The same could certainly not be said of Mr. Gatty’s.)
Then, in the light of his reminiscences, a dreadful thought came to her.
“John,” she said, suddenly, “did you ever kill a pig?”
“‘John,’ she said, suddenly, ‘did you ever kill a pig?’”
He answered, absently, as was his way when directly addressed.
“A pig? Yes, I’ve killed one or two in California.”
She drew back in her chair; but, as she still gazed at him, he went on, well pleased:
“I can’t tell you much about California. It was in Australia I learned sheep-farming.”