Esmeralda was about to hold out her hand, but remembered Lady Wyndover’s instructions, and bowed. Lord Selvaine’s quick eyes saw the checked movement and noted it.
“I am delighted that you don’t dance, Miss Chetwynde,” he said, and his voice had a penetrating tone which matched his eyes, “because I don’t dance myself, and we can sit out, and watch other people getting hot. Selfish, you think? We men are all selfish, you know.”
He led her to a small recess in which there was a seat.
“And so this is your first ball? I wish it were mine! I would give something to know what you think of it.”
“I think it is beautiful,” said Esmeralda again. “It is like a picture, and all the colors and lights are like—” She stopped, with a laugh. “Oh! I can’t tell you what I mean, but I dare say you understand.”
He leaned back, and crossed one leg, his womanish hands clasped over it, and looked at her with the shadow of a smile in his piercing eyes. He seemed in no hurry to take her to Lady Wyndover.
“Yes, I think I understand,” he said. “It is all so new to you! I hope that the women will seem as beautiful, the men as nice, the colors as fresh, the music as delightful to you for a very, very long time!”
“You think they will not?” said Esmeralda.
He smiled.
“No; but I think they will last longer for you than they do for most of us. But you must remember that I am an old man moralizing to a young girl.”