“I certainly do not intend to refer to that unfortunate episode again,” she replied icily. “As far as I am concerned it will be blotted from my memory as completely as I can wipe out so disagreeable an incident. Will you, please, take your hand off my trap.”
Antony withdrew his hand as if the trap had stung him.
The Duchessa touched the pony with her whip, Antony stood looking after them. When, once more, the moorland was deserted, he sat down again on the heather.
Josephus, returning from a rabbit hunt more than an hour later, found him still there in the same position. Disturbed by something queer in his deity’s mood, he thrust a wet black nose into his hand.
The touch roused Antony. He looked up, half dazed. Then he saw Josephus.
“I’ve done it now, old man,” he said. And there was a queer little catch in his voice.