"I am extremely sorry, but it was the dog's fault," said the voice, aggressively.
"Yes," said Edward.
"There's nothing to be done," said the voice. "It was nearly a nasty accident for us."
"I apologize for my dog's conduct," said Edward, formally.
And then came another voice, "But, Aunt Loo, can't we do anything?"
Of course you will have known all along whose voice that would be. Edward was less discerning. He had been far too much occupied with Charles and the horse to do more than realize that the two people in the cart were women—and now when he heard again the voice that had talked to him yesterday in the freshness of the morning, the shock sent his blood surging. He looked up—face, neck, ears were burning. Men do not blush, but if they did you would have said that Mr. Basingstoke blushed in that hour.
He looked up. Holding the reins was a hard, angular woman of fifty, the sort that plays golf and billiards and is perfectly competent with horses. Beside her sat the girl, and under her white hat the crimson of her face matched his own. The distress he felt at this unpropitious coincidence deepened his color. Hers deepened, too.
"You can't do anything, thank you," he said, just a moment too late. For his pause had given the aunt time to look from one to the other.