‘Her grace’s carriage is invariably breaking down. Invariably. Besides,’ drawled Lord Rex, putting up a ferocious pince-nez, and resolute to nip renewal of acquaintance in the bud, ‘we are not on the top of the St. Gothard now. Ah, Mrs. Arbuthnot,’ he addressed Dinah in as low a tone as a man’s voice can sink to without becoming an actual whisper, ‘this makes up to one for a great deal I have suffered at your hands.’
‘By this,’ said Dinah, whose courage was returning, ‘do you mean the cold soup we have eaten, or the colder fish to which they are helping us?’
‘I mean the happiness of sitting beside you, of knowing I am so much forgiven that——’
‘Her grace travelled on as far as Andermatt in the carriage it was my privilege to lend her. From Andermatt, if my memory serves me right——’
‘Your memory is certain to serve you right, sir. The incident which I, it seems, have forgotten, was more than unimportant.’
Lord Rex’s manner was brutal; no other word would adequately describe it. The poor little tourist’s eyes dropped to his plate, his face turned scarlet. Dinah leaned forward on the instant. With the gentle womanliness which was her breeding, she addressed him in her pleasant country voice:
‘My husband and I met with just the same kind of accident once. Our carriage broke down, and we had to spend six hours, in wet and darkness, between Berne and Vevey. I should not have forgotten any one who had come to our help that night.’
‘Ah—you know Switzerland, madam? Then may I ask,’ the tourist gave a piteous glance towards Lord Rex, ‘if you take an interest in the Alpine flora? I have only time to pursue such things during my holidays.’ It is possible he pronounced the word without its aspirate. ‘But botany is my hobby; I get plants enough in my five weeks to fill my leisure for the rest of the year. Now in that very region you speak of, I have found two or three specimens that are unique. If you will allow me to enumerate the Latin names, madam——’
And so on, and so on. The poor man was one of nature’s choicest bores. His information was stale, his manner of imparting it prosy; his blindness to the suffering he inflicted, absolute. Dinah’s face wore a look of kindly interest through everything. Occasionally (Lord Rex all but groaning aloud over his wasted opportunities) she would strike in with some question calculated to start the narrator afresh on new tracks, on new prosiness, if, peradventure, he chanced to lag.