“Yes,” said Esmeralda. “I think I do. But if he is all this, why does he waste his time in talking to a girl like me?”
Lady Wyndover laughed softly.
“Because he has taken a fancy to you, my dear,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t know why. Oh! it isn’t because you’re pretty; the prettiest woman in the world wouldn’t move him. And it can’t be your money,” she was going to say, but paused, for Lord Selvaine returned with the fan. At the same moment, Lady Wyndover’s partner came up to claim her.
“Leave Miss Chetwynde with me for a little longer, Lady Wyndover,” said Lord Selvaine. “I will take her through the rooms, if she will allow me.”
He steered her through the crowd, their progress being watched and commented on, and, now and again, stopped to make an introduction to her; and Esmeralda, not at all daunted by his greatness, continued asking questions, which he answered without a sign of weariness.
They paused for a moment in the opening to a conservatory, and Esmeralda seated herself on a lounge within view of the entrance to the ball-room, and watched the late arrivals with undiminished interest. She was beating time to the music with the tip of her white satin shoe, and Lord Selvaine was leaning against the door-way, and looking down at her with a curious smile, when suddenly he saw her start slightly and her foot stop its rhythmical motion. He looked in the direction of the entrance, and then at her, and waited.
“Who is that who has just come in?” she asked, but with a certain hesitation, which he noticed.
“Which? The lady, do you mean?” he asked.
“No, no!” she said, with a touch of impatience. “The man; the tall young man with the dark face; there he is, just shaking hands with Lady Blankyre.”