That is always the way with a fox; he seems to
be looking at your thoughts.
Surprise, eagerness, a lively curiosity are all in your face on the
instant; but the beautiful creature before you only draws himself
together with quiet self-possession. He lifts his head slightly; a
superior look creeps into his eyes; he seems to be speaking. Listen--
"You are surprised?"--this with an almost imperceptible lift of his
eyebrows, which reminds you somehow that it is really none of your
affair. "O, I frequently use this road in attending to some matters
over in the West Parish. To be sure, we are socially incompatible; we
may even regard each other as enemies, unfortunately. I did take your
chickens last week; but yesterday your unmannerly dogs hunted me. At
least we may meet and pass as gentlemen. You are the older; allow me
to give you the path."
Dropping his head again, he turns to the left, English fashion, and
trots slowly past you. There is no hurry; not the shadow of suspicion
or uneasiness. His eyes are cast down; his brow wrinkled, as if in
deep thought; already he seems to have forgotten your existence. You
watch him curiously as he reenters the path behind you and disappears
over the hill. Somehow a queer feeling, half wonder, half rebuke,
steals over you, as if you had been outdone in courtesy, or had passed
a gentleman without sufficiently recognizing him.
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