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?’ ‘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.’