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 Mrs. Foliot whom they had been talking of at lunch.
“He 'll be quiet now,” she said, “if you would n't mind holding him a minute.”
She gave the reins to him, and leaned against the gate. She was very pale.
“I do hope he has n't hurt you,” Shelton said. He was quite close to her, well able to see her face—a curious face with high cheek-bones and a flatfish moulding, enigmatic, yet strangely passionate for all its listless pallor. Her smiling, tightened lips were pallid; pallid, too, her grey and deep-set eyes with greenish tints; above all, pale the ashy mass of hair coiled under her grey cap.
“Th-thanks!” she said; “I shall be all right directly. I'm sorry to have made a fuss.”
She bit her lips and smiled.
“I 'm sure you're hurt; do let me go for—” stammered Shelton. “I can easily get help.”