Approaching Hyde Park Corner, where Ferrand was still standing against the rails, Shelton, who had forgotten his existence, suffered a shock when his eyes fell suddenly on that impassive figure.  He was about to raise his hand, when he saw that the young foreigner, noting his instinctive feeling, had at once adapted himself to it.  They passed again without a greeting, unless that swift inquisition; followed by unconsciousness in Ferrand’s eyes, could so be called.  But the feeling of idiotic happiness left Shelton; he grew irritated at this silence.  It tantalised him more and more, for Bill Dennant had lagged behind to chatter to a friend; Shelton and Antonia were alone, walking their horses, without a word, not even looking at each other.  At one moment he thought of galloping ahead and leaving her, then of breaking the vow of muteness she seemed to be imposing on him, and he kept thinking:  “It ought to be either one thing or the other.  I can’t stand this.”  Her calmness was getting on his nerves; she seemed to have determined just how far she meant to go, to have fixed cold-bloodedly a limit.  In her happy young beauty and radiant coolness she summed up that sane consistent something existing in nine out of ten of the people Shelton knew.  “I can’t stand it long,” he thought, and all of a sudden spoke; but as he did so she frowned and cantered on.  When he caught her she was smiling, lifting her face to catch the raindrops which were falling fast.  She gave him just a nod, and waved her hand as a sign for him to go; and when he would not, she frowned.  He saw Bill Dennant, posting after them, and, seized by a sense of the ridiculous, lifted his hat, and galloped off.

The rain was coming down in torrents now, and every one was scurrying for shelter.  He looked back from the bend, and could still make out Antonia riding leisurely, her face upturned, and revelling in the shower.  Why had n’t she either cut him altogether or taken the sweets the gods had sent?  It seemed wicked to have wasted such a chance, and, ploughing back to Hyde Park Corner, he turned his head to see if by any chance she had relented.

His irritation was soon gone, but his longing stayed.  Was ever anything so beautiful as she had looked with her face turned to the rain?  She seemed to love the rain.  It suited her—­suited her ever so much better than the sunshine of the South.  Yes, she was very English!  Puzzling and fretting, he reached his rooms.  Ferrand had not arrived, in fact did not turn up that day.  His non-appearance afforded Shelton another proof of the delicacy that went hand in hand with the young vagrant’s cynicism.  In the afternoon he received a note.

. . .  You see, Dick [he read], I ought to have cut you; but I felt too crazy—­everything seems so jolly at home, even this stuffy old London.  Of course, I wanted to talk to you badly—­there are heaps of things one can’t say by letter—­but I should have been sorry afterwards.  I told mother.  She said I was quite right, but I don’t think she took it in.  Don’t you feel that the only thing that really matters is to have an ideal, and to keep it so safe that you can always look forward and feel that you have been—­I can’t exactly express my meaning.