“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.”
Shelton tried to speak, but something kept him silent—submission to what was coming, like the mute submission of the fields and birds to the menace of the storm.