Lady Ada and Esmeralda seated themselves on a lounge within view of the room, and Esmeralda looked openly at the exquisite woman beside her. Not only openly, but with frank admiration. Lady Ada bore the inspection with languid serenity. The girl was a savage, and her gaucheries must be endured, if she, Lady Ada, were to fulfill her promise, and “help” Trafford to obtain this two millions. She saw, without looking, that Esmeralda was perfectly dressed, and that her beauty was more marked in its freshness and unconventionality even than it had been when Ada had last seen her. This made her task all the harder, and her heart swelled with bitterness as she leaned back in graceful ease, looking as if she were interested only in the crowd about her. At last she spoke.

“I have been hearing a great deal about you, Miss Chetwynde,” she said.

“Yes?” said Esmeralda; and her coolness and absence of vanity made, strangely enough, Lady Ada’s dislike more vivid.

“I am afraid that you think our curiosity extremely rude and vulgar. But you see we have, after all, so few new sensations in London, that we welcome any one with so romantic a history as yours.”

“Is it romantic?” said Esmeralda. “You mean, like a story? Well, I should have thought there wasn’t anything very curious about it. Yes, people do stare, and I’ve seen things people print about me in the paper. It seems a lot of[110] fuss about one girl, when there are such heaps here. But if it amuses them, I don’t mind; I suppose they’ll get tired of it before long, and find some one else to make a fuss about.”

“It is not unlikely,” said Lady Ada. “And I suppose you are enjoying your new life very much? I thought you were looking very happy just now when I saw you with Lord Trafford.”

It was a piece of insolent impertinence; but Esmeralda did not detect it, disguised as it was by a smile.

“Oh, yes, I am happy!” she said. “As you say, it’s all new to me, and everybody is very kind. Everybody asks me if I am happy.”

“Does Lord Trafford?” asked Ada, as if she could not help herself.

“I don’t remember,” said Esmeralda, innocently; “but he’s very kind; I like him.”

Lady Ada’s fan moved more quickly.

“I am not surprised at that,” she said, beginning on her hateful task. “Lord Trafford is one of the nicest men in London, and is kindness itself. I am a very old friend of his; we have known each other a great many years, and are like”—she paused a moment, and caught her breath—“like brother and sister. I admire him very much.”

“Yes, he is very handsome,” said Esmeralda, as coolly as before.

Lady Ada’s lips twitched.

“And he is as good as he looks, as the books say. There is not a man in the room who can do the things men do as well as he can.”

Esmeralda thought of The Rosebud’s eulogies, and said, absently:

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yes,” said Lady Ada, “he is a conspicuous figure in London society—indeed, everywhere—one of our great men; and one day he will be greater—he will be a duke.”

She spoke as if she were speaking to a child.

“Yes, I know,” said Esmeralda, indifferently. “Every one seems to be a duke or an earl, or something with a handle to his name.”

“I suppose that you are surprised he isn’t married?” said Lady Ada, loathing herself as she spoke.

“I never thought of it,” said Esmeralda; “I suppose he hasn’t found any one he likes.”

It was an innocent thrust, but it went home.

“I suppose not,” said Ada. “Some day he will meet the[111] lady who is fated to be his wife. She will be a very lucky person, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Esmeralda. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Lady Ada looked round the room, and smiled half bitterly.

“You are so delightfully innocent, Miss Chetwynde,” she said, “that in talking to you one feels like a serpent in the garden of Eden, and I feel almost ashamed to say what I was going to say.”

“What was that?” asked Esmeralda.

“That there is not a girl in this room who would not be half mad with delight if Lord Trafford were to ask her to be his wife.”

“But they can’t all be in love with him!” said Esmeralda, after a moment’s consideration of this startling assertion.

Lady Ada leaned back wearily. Her task was harder than she had thought it would be—seemed well-nigh hopeless.

“Perhaps not,” she said; “but they are one and all in love with his title—with his position. It is a great thing to be the Duchess of Belfayre.”

“Is it?” said Esmeralda. “I dare say it is, if you say so. I don’t know anything about it; but I dare say I shall learn in time.”

Lady Ada laughed with barely concealed impatience and scorn.

“I am so glad we have met, Miss Chetwynde,” she said; “for in addition to the gratitude which I owe you, I feel that we shall be great friends—that is, if you care for my friendship.”

“Oh, yes,” said Esmeralda, “it is very kind of you.”

“You must come and see me,” said Lady Ada. “Ask Lady Wyndover to bring you as soon as she can; and you must tell me all—all your difficulties. Things must seem so strange to you, just at first, and perhaps I can help you.”

As she spoke, Trafford came up with Lady Wyndover on his arm.

“Will you hold my bouquet a moment, Lord Trafford?” said Lady Ada; “I have torn my dress.”

As they drew a little apart, and she bent down to examine her train, she said in a low voice:

“You see I am keeping my promise.”

“I see. I am sorry. Let it alone,” he said.

“She is a block of wood—a stone!” she murmured. “You will have hard work to secure her. You will never do it, meeting her only in places like this. Take them for a drive to-morrow. Get her alone with you.”

[112]

He frowned darkly.

“Why do you trouble?” he said, almost harshly. “It is—”

“Despicable,” she filled in. “I know it. Do you think I don’t feel it—that I don’t know that I am earning your contempt? That’s a woman’s portion when she sacrifices herself for the man she— You would have thought more highly of me if I had made a scene—loaded you with reproaches, and cut you for the rest of my life. Most women would have acted thus; but it is my ill-fortune to care for you, not wisely, but too well.”

“Let it alone,” he said again. “You mean well, and I am not ungrateful; but you make my task harder instead of easier. You make me feel ashamed. Will you dance with me?”

“If you like,” she said, resignedly.

They had often danced together, and they moved as one. Esmeralda watched them with admiration that was not untinged by faint envy. Every now and then Trafford felt Ada’s hand grip his spasmodically, and presently she drooped upon him heavily.

“That will do,” she said, with a long sigh; “I am tired. Take me to Lady Grange; I want to go home.”

Trafford saw them to their carriage, and then returned to the ball-room; but he could not have got near Esmeralda again if he had desired to do so, for when she was not dancing she was surrounded by men who were more eager to pay their court to her than the Marquis of Trafford was. She saw him from a distance before he left, and wondered whether he would come to her again, and she was conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment that he did not do so. He was the handsomest—the most distinguished man in the room, in a way. And Esmeralda was—just a girl.

Lady Wyndover, who had not been unobservant, and who was thrilling with satisfaction at Trafford’s attention to her ward, talked of him nearly all the way home; but Esmeralda was very silent, and only answered in monosyllables; but she thought of him a great deal that night.

The following afternoon she was sitting alone in the drawing-room, Lady Wyndover having gone out, when Lord Trafford was announced. He came in, looking rather grave and very aristocratic in his long frock coat. Esmeralda greeted him with her usual frankness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Lady Wyndover is out; she has gone to the milliner’s. I am rather tired of buying hats and[113] bonnets, and so I stayed at home. Will you have some tea—I was just going to ring for it—or don’t you take tea?”

Trafford said he would take some tea, and it was brought in. He seated himself in a lounge chair, and watched her as she poured out the tea. She was not in the least shy, not in the least embarrassed, and she asked him if he took sugar, as if she had known him all her life. He noticed that she looked particularly young and girlish in her plain afternoon dress, and that her hands, which he saw for the first time without their gloves, were, though brown, small and shapely. He noticed, too, how long and dark her lashes were, and that the beauty which he had remarked in the ball-room did not wane in the daylight; indeed, she looked even more charming. A book was lying on the couch beside her, and he took it up. It was a book of adventure, plentifully illustrated.

“Are you fond of reading?” he asked.

She hesitated a moment.

“I don’t know; it all depends upon the book. I haven’t read much, for there weren’t many books at Three Star, and I haven’t had time since I have been in London; and most of the books I see here are so silly. I like that one.”

She began to tell him what it was about, and for a moment lost herself in her description. Once or twice she laughed, and Trafford thought her laugh was a very pleasant and musical one.

“It’s full of adventure,” she said, “and all sorts of terrible things happen to the man—enough to kill ten men out of a book—but he gets through them all in a most wonderful manner. And he’s always saving some girl, and shooting some man; but the man who wrote it doesn’t seem to know the difference bet............