“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.