[40] So he sat there, thinking such thoughts as men do think in adversity. After a calamity, when the first excitement of horror dies down, one always says, "How different everything was yesterday!" and Mr. Basingstoke said what we all say. Yesterday Charles was alive and well, and his master had not taken him out because he wanted to be at leisure to think—he realized that now—about the girl whom he was to have met to-day. And he had not met the girl. And Charles was dead. "I wish I hadn't left you at home yesterday, old boy," said Mr. Basingstoke. And then came the sound of hoofs, and he prepared to stop the vehicle, whatever it was, and beg for a lift for himself and what he carried. But when the wheels came near and he saw that it was the very cart that had run over Charles he sat down again and kept his eyes on the ground. It wasn't their fault, of course, but still. . . . The cart stopped and some one was saying: "I hope the dog isn't much hurt." A hard, cold voice it was. Edward got out his hand from under Charles to take his hat off, and said: "My dog is dead." [41] [41] "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
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