He saw and misinterpreted the blush.
‘Thought, you know, as there was a rumour of the cousin’s absence, I should have a chance of getting next you.’
‘You would have been better amused elsewhere, my lord. With Geff I can talk or be silent as I like. Geff does not mind.’
Lord Rex on this made some whispered hit at the ‘model cousin’s’ excellence. As he ate his half cold soup murmured comparisons fell from him as to the men who are made of flesh and blood, poor devils! and the other men, too good for this world, who are made of ice, yes, ice, by Jove! But he was not great at covert allusion. The metaphorical ice got mixed with the metaphorical flesh and blood: his nominatives were nowhere. Breaking down, rather ignominiously, Lord Rex smothered his failure under a capacious sigh.
Dinah turned to him, with cheeks still burning. ‘I am afraid I did not understand. Men of ice! Men of flesh and blood! Were you talking of Geff or of yourself, Lord Rex?’
Despite her blush, the true eyes stopped him short, as they had so often done before. Ere Rex Basire had time to double back towards his starting-point there came an interruption—one of the trivial things not to be mentioned in heroic story, yet which do, ofttimes, determine the current of a human life. A plain little man, his large-checked suit, his open Murray proclaiming the tourist, had during the past two minutes attentively watched Lord Rex from the other side the table. Upon hearing Dinah’s mention of the name, the stranger fidgeted with his knife and fork, cleared his throat, coughed. Finally, leaning forward with a bow, it was obvious that he expected, was eager for, aristocratic recognition.
‘Lord Rex Basire, if I mistake not?’
‘Sir! You are politeness itself. But you have the better of me.’
Rex Basire accorded his interrogator a blank and frozen stare.
‘Oh, the top of St. Gothard, Lord Rex. You were travelling with the Duchess. Her grace’s carriage broke down—something wrong with the linch-pin—and as I was in the region, botanising, I had the honour of offering her grace mine. Your lordship will recollect?’