“The lady who stood at the door in white velvet?”
“Lady Blankyre,” he said; “one of the leaders of society—that is, one of the principal ladies of rank and fashion. Whatever Lady Blankyre says is right, is right, to all the world—especially her husband—the gentleman of whom I robbed you. She is just now saying that Miss Chetwynde is ‘right.’”
He glanced at Esmeralda, but she did not blush or look overwhelmed.
“Why shouldn’t I be right?” she said, her brows meeting in the little frown which came when she was puzzled.
He laughed softly.
“Do you know you have the gift of repartee to an extraordinary extent, Miss Chetwynde?” he said. “Nothing in the way of a retort—to what I frankly and penitently admit was an impertinence—could have been better.”
Esmeralda looked at him with grave regard.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Who is that old gentleman with the white hair and large nose?”
“Mr. Elmbourne—the first man in England—in the world. He is the Prime Minister—the Queen’s chief adviser. He is a great friend of Lady Blankyre’s, and he has left the House of Commons for five minutes’ talk with her.”
“He looks like everybody else—only he laughs more,” remarked Esmeralda.