“I am no lady of his, Diana,” Ruth reminded her, with a faint show of heat.
Diana shrugged her shoulders. “You may not love him, but you can't ordain that he shall not love you. You are very harsh, I think. To me it rather seems that Richard acted like a boor.”
“But, mistress,” cried Sir Rowland, half out of countenance, and stifling his vexation, “in these matters it all depends upon the manner.”
“Why, yes,” she agreed; “and whatever Mr. Wilding's manner, if I know him at all, it would be nothing but respectful to the last degree.”
“My own conception of respect,” said he, “is not to bandy a lady's name about a company of revellers.”
“Bethink you, though, you said just now, it all depended on the manner,” she rejoined. Sir Rowland shrugged and turned half from her to her listening cousin. When all is said, poor Diana appears—despite her cunning—to have been short-sighted. Aiming at a defined advantage in the game she played, she either ignored or held too lightly the concomitant disadvantage of vexing Blake.
“It were perhaps best to tell us the exact words he used, Sir Rowland,” she suggested, “that for ourselves we may judge how far he lacked respect.”
“What signify the words!” cried Blake, now almost out of temper. “I don't recall them. It is the air with which he pledged Mistress Westmacott.”
“Ah yes—the manner,” quoth Diana irritatingly. “We'll let that be. Richard threw his wine in Mr. Wilding's face? What followed then? What said Mr. Wilding?”
Sir Rowland remembered what Mr. Wilding had said, and bethought him that it were impolitic in him to repeat it. At the same time, not having looked for this cross-questioning, he was all unprepared with any likely answer. He hesitated, until Ruth echoed Diana's question.