" He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery
which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man. It
was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing
hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with
consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.
"I wonder"--he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity--"I
wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one? But,
no"--he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to
reply--"you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your
little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around
you: 'That flower is the gift of a man--a rough boor of a man--who was
atrociously rude to me once. I don't even value it enough to pick it
up.' Whereupon every one--quite rightly, too!--would cry shame on the
man who had dared to insult so charming a lady--probably adding that if
bad luck befell him it would be no more than he deserved! . . . And I've
no doubt he'll get his desserts," he added carelessly.
Diana felt the tears very near her eyes and her lip quivered.. This man
had the power of hurting her--wounding her to the quick--with his bitter
raillery.
When she spoke again her voice shook a little.
"You are wrong," she said, "quite wrong. I should pick up the flower
and"--steadily--"I should keep it, because it was thrown to me by a man
who had twice done me the greatest service in his power.
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