"Please open your mouth," he said, testily, putting his hand under her chin.
She prayed, "Oh God, let there be a large hole in it," and opened her mouth so wide that she looked like a young robin beseeching food.
"H-m," growled Maurice. "It should have been attended to some time ago." He added, giving her chin a grudging stroke: "You've pretty little teeth. Get the fellow to fix them up properly."
Pheasant stared. He was being almost loving. At this late hour! He had stroked her chin—given it a little dab with his fingers, anyway. She felt suddenly angry with him. The idea of getting demonstratively affectionate with her at this late hour! Making it harder for her to leave him.
"Thanks," she said. "I'll be a beauty if I keep on, shan't I?"
He answered seriously: "You're too skinny for beauty. But you'll fill out. You're nothing but a filly."
"This is the way fillies show their pleasure," she said, and rubbed her head against his shoulder. "I wish I could whinny! But I can bite."
"I know you can," he said, gravely. "You bit me when you were five. And I held your head under the tap for it."
She was glad he had reminded her of that episode. It would be easier to leave him after that.
He went into the hall and took his hat from a peg.
"Good-bye," she called after him.
She watched him go along the path toward the stables, filling his pipe, walking with his peculiar, slouching, hangdog gait. She threw open the window and called after him:—
"Oh, hullo, Maurice!"
"Yes?" he answered, half wheeling.
