The morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. Antonia was at her music, and from the room where Shelton tried to fix attention on a book he could hear her practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an added gloom upon his spirit. He did not see her until lunch, and then she again sat next the Connoisseur. Her cheeks were pale, but there was something feverish in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused to look at Shelton. He felt very miserable. After lunch, when most of them had left the table, the rest fell to discussing country neighbours. “Of course,” said Mrs. Dennant, “there are the Foliots; but nobody calls on them.”
“Ah!” said the Connoisseur, “the Foliots—the Foliots—the people—er—who—quite so!”
“It's really distressin'. she looks so sweet ridin' about. Many people with worse stories get called on,” continued Mrs. Dennant, with that large frankness of intrusion upon doubtful subjects which may be made by certain people in a certain way, “but, after all, one couldn't ask them to meet anybody.”
“No,” the Connoisseur assented. “I used to know Foliot. Thousand pities. They say she was a very pretty woman.”
“Oh, not pretty!” said Mrs. Dennant! “more interestin than pretty, I should say.”
Shelton, who knew the lady slightly, noticed that they spoke of her as in the past. He did not look towards Antonia; for, though a little troubled at her presence while such a subject was discussed, he hated his conviction that her face, was as unruffled as though the Foliots had been a separate species. There was, in fact, a curiosity about her eyes, a faint impatience on her lips; she was rolling little crumbs of bread. Suddenly yawning, she muttered some remark, and rose. Shelton stopped her at the door.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
“May n't I come?”.
She shook her head.
“I 'm going to take Toddles.”
Shelton held the door open, and went back to the table.
“Yes,” the Connoisseur said, sipping at his sherry, “I 'm afraid it's all over with young Foliot.”
“Such a pity!” murmured Mrs. Dennant, and her kindly face looked quite disturbed. “I've known him ever since he was a boy. Of course, I think he made a great mistake to bring her down here. Not even bein' able to get married makes it doubly awkward. Oh, I think he made a great mistake!”
“Ah!” said the Connoisseur, “but d' you suppose that makes much difference? Even if What 's—his-name gave her a divorce, I don't think, don't you know, that—”
“Oh, it does! So many people would be inclined to look over it in time. But as it is it's hopeless, quite. So very awkward for people, too, meetin' them about. The Telfords and the Butterwicks—by the way, they're comin' here to dine to-night—live near them, don't you know.”
“Did you ever meet her before-er-before the flood?” the Connoisseur inquired; and his lips parting and unexpectedly revealing teeth gave him a shadowy resemblance to a goat.
“Yes; I did meet her once at the Branksomes'. I thought her quite a charmin' person.”
“Poor fellow!” said the Connoisseur; “they tell me he was going to take the hounds.”
“And there are his delightful coverts, too. Algie often used to shoot there, and now they say he just has his brother down to shoot with him. It's really quite too melancholy! Did you know him, Dick?”
“Foliot?” replied Shelton absently. “No; I never met him: I've seen her once or twice at Ascot.”
Through the window he could see Antonia in her scarlet Tam-o'-shanter, swinging her stick, and he got up feigning unconcern. Just then Toddles came bounding up against his sister. They went off arm in arm. She had seen him at the window, yet she gave no friendly glance; Shelton felt more miserable than ever. He stepped out upon the drive. There was a lurid, gloomy canopy above; the elm-trees drooped their heavy blackish green, the wonted rustle of the aspen-tree was gone, even the rooks were silent. A store of force lay heavy on the heart of nature. He started pacing slowly up and down, his pride forbidding him to follow her, and presently sat down on an old stone seat that faced the road. He stayed a long time staring at the elms, asking himself what he had done and what he ought to do. And somehow he was frightened. A sense of loneliness was on him, so real, so painful, that he shivered in the sweltering heat. He was there, perhaps, an hour, alone, and saw nobody pass along the road. Then came the sound of horse's hoofs, and at the same time he heard a motor-car approaching from the opposite direction. The rider made appearance first, riding a grey horse with an Arab's high set head and tail. She was holding him with difficulty, for the whirr of the approaching car grew every moment louder. Shelton rose; the car flashed by. He saw the horse stagger in the gate-way, crushing its rider up against the gatepost.
He ran, but before he reached the gate the lady was on foot, holding the plunging horse's bridle.
“Are you hurt?” cried Shelton breathlessly, and he, too, grabbed the bridle. “Those beastly cars!”
“I don't know,” she said. “Please don't; he won't let strangers touch him.”
Shelton let go, and watched her coax the horse. She was rather tall, dressed in a grey habit, with a grey Russian cap upon her head, and he suddenly recognised the Mr............