She even bowed courteously to him on leaving the table d’hôte: an example not followed by Lord Rex.
‘A charming dinner, on my word!’ So he broke forth, the moment he found himself beside Dinah in the welcome freshness of the garden. ‘May I ask, Mrs. Arbuthnot, what inhuman whim made you talk to that wretched snob?’
Rex Basire’s voice went beyond the limits of petulance.
‘Why a snob?’ asked Dinah, meekly. ‘You know I can never catch the inner meaning of these names.’
‘Why? Because he was a snob. “Her grace’s carriage broke down on the top of the St. Gothard; he had had the privilege of offering his.” What the dickens did that matter to me? “Her grace travelled as far as Andermatt in his carriage.” What the dickens did that matter to him?’
‘Only this, perhaps—that her grace’s misadventure obliged the snob to go on foot.’
‘Mrs. Arbuthnot!—I never expect a direct answer from any woman,’ Lord Rex exclaimed with scarcely suppressed temper; ‘still, I should like to know why during a mortal three-quarters of an hour you allowed that little wretch to talk to you?’
She paused. A shade of deepened colour touched her cheek. ‘The wretch was intelligent, Lord Rex.’ (Aye, and opportune! This was a subtle parenthesis, put in by Dinah’s conscience.) ‘I don’t understand Alpine plants, but I liked to hear a good deal our tourist said about them.’
‘The ’obby he pursues during his ’olidays,’ observed Lord Rex, humorously.