“I ’m afraid,” he said, “your horse has knocked his off knee; it’s swelling.”

She smiled again.

“Then we’re both cripples.”

“He’ll be lame when he gets cold.  Would n’t you like to put him in the stable here?  I ’m sure you ought to drive home.”

“No, thanks; if I ’m able to ride him he can carry me.  Give me a hand up.”

Her voice sounded as though something had offended her.  Rising from inspection of the horse’s leg, Shelton saw Antonia and Toddles standing by.  They had come through a wicketgate leading from the fields.

The latter ran up to him at once.

“We saw it,” he whispered—­“jolly smash-up.  Can’t I help?”

“Hold his bridle,” answered Shelton, and he looked from one lady to the other.

There are moments when the expression of a face fixes itself with painful clearness; to Shelton this was such a moment.  Those two faces close together, under their coverings of scarlet and of grey, showed a contrast almost cruelly vivid.  Antonia was flushed, her eyes had grown deep blue; her look of startled doubt had passed and left a question in her face.

“Would you like to come in and wait?  We could send you home, in the brougham,” she said.

The lady called Mrs. Foliot stood, one arm across the crupper of her saddle, biting her lips and smiling still her enigmatic smile, and it was her face that stayed most vividly on Shelton’s mind, its ashy hail, its pallor, and fixed, scornful eyes.

“Oh, no, thanks!  You’re very kind.”

Out of Antonia’s face the timid, doubting friendliness had fled, and was replaced by enmity.  With a long, cold look at both of them she turned away.  Mrs. Foliot gave a little laugh, and raised her foot for Shelton’s help.  He heard a hiss of pain as he swung her up, but when he looked at her she smiled.

“Anyway,” he said impatiently, “let me come and see you don’t break down.”

She shook her head.  “It ’s only two miles.  I’m not made of sugar.”

“Then I shall simply have to follow.”

She shrugged her shoulders, fixing her resolute eyes on him.

“Would that boy like to come?” she asked.

Toddles left the horse’s head.

“By Jove!” he cried.  “Would n’t I just!”

“Then,” she said, “I think that will be best.  You ’ve been so kind.”

She bowed, smiled inscrutably once more, touched the Arab with her whip, and started, Toddles trotting at her side.

Shelton was left with Antonia underneath the elms.  A sudden puff of tepid air blew in their faces, like a warning message from the heavy, purple heat clouds; low rumbling thunder travelled slowly from afar.

“We’re going to have a storm,” he said.

Antonia nodded.  She was pale now, and her face still wore its cold look of offence.

“I ’ve got a headache,” she said, “I shall go in and lie down.”