Dick, who had been dreading this moment, looked sheepish. It seemed to him that the forehead of every one in the room slid sideways like a secret panel revealing a wall upon which in large and straggling characters were chalked up the words: DON JUAN. And Teresa was saying to herself: “Would it be vulgar ... should I dare to say Lydia Bennett? And who will she say? Hedda Gabler?”
She had forgotten what the game really was and had come to think it consisted of telling the victim the character that you yourself thought they resembled.
“Who does Mr. Lane think he’s like?” repeated Rory.
“Drake, I should think,” said Guy, who never sulked for long.
Dick felt unutterably relieved.
“Is that right, sir?”
“That will do—Drake if you like,” said Dick, with a laugh.
“A Drake somewhat ... er ... cramped in his legitimate activities through having ... er ... married an ... er ... SPANISH LADY,” said Harry.
What the devil did he mean exactly by that? Surely the Doña hadn’t been blabbing to him—Harry of all people! But she was capable of anything.