"Because if he had," I answered rashly, "I'd take the occasion to
break his neck next time we meet."
Mary gave a soft little laugh.
"Really, Doctor Haverill, I didn't know you were so violent."
"I'm not," I retorted, "at least, not as a rule. But the sight of
that man always rouses in me a peculiar and earnest desire to kick
him."
"I dare say he's really quite a simple and kind-hearted man," said
Mary, with no other purpose, I felt sure, than to irritate me.
"The rugged exterior that hides a beautiful soul," I suggested,
remembering that sinister farmyard beyond the Bend. "That's as it
may be. The exterior is good enough for me, or bad enough, as you
choose to put it. If I get the report of a S.P.C.A. inspector on
that farm of his, as I intend to do one of these days, we'll see how
Aaron's simple kind-heartedness stands out."
The words slipped out almost without my knowledge. Mary looked at me
quickly.
"What's wrong at the place?"
"Merely that the condition of it isn't particularly pretty. I
shouldn't have mentioned it. Only a man that keeps animals in the
filth and neglect that he does ought to be made an example of in any
civilized community. I don't know that there's anything to be gained
by interfering at the present moment, but I've seen enough to make me
keep an eye on him."
For a little time we drove in silence. Mary's face was grave and
troubled. I was angry with myself. I was a fool to mention Menning
or his place at all. Presently I turned to her.
"Look here, you're not upset by what I said just now? Because you've
no need to think twice about it. I said it because ... well, because
I hated to hear you speak about him that way, even for a minute."
"No. I wasn't thinking about Aaron just then." She gave me a queer
little smile. "Doctor Haverill, I guess I've behaved pretty
abominably this afternoon."