“She didn't live here,” he explained, waving his hand deprecatingly towards the weather-beaten house. “We lived over near Morrisville in them days. And he don't remember me, your husband don't. I ain't surprised. I've got considerable older.”
Honora was trembling from head to foot, and her hands were cold.
“I've got her picture in there, if ye'd like to look at it,” he said, after a while.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, no!”
“Well, I don't know as I blame you.” He sat down again and began to whittle. “Funny thing, chance,” he remarked; “who'd a thought I should have owned that there hoss, and he should have come around here to ride it?”
She tried to speak, but she could not. The hideous imperturbability of the man's hatred sickened her. And her husband! The chips fell in silence until a noise on the road caused them to look up. Chiltern was coming back. She glanced again at the farmer, but his face was equally incapable, or equally unwilling, to express regret. Chiltern rode into the dooryard. The blood from the scratch on his forehead had crossed his temple and run in a jagged line down his cheek, his very hair (as she had sometimes seen it) was damp with perspiration, blacker, kinkier; his eyes hard, reckless, bloodshot. So, in the past, must he have emerged from dozens of such wilful, brutal contests with man and beast. He had beaten the sweat-stained horse (temporarily—such was the impression Honora received), but she knew that he would like to have killed it for its opposition.
“Give me my hat, will you?” he cried to the farmer.
To her surprise the man obeyed. Chiltern leaped to the ground.
“What do you want for him?” he demanded.
“I'll take five hundred dollars.”