She looked at him from under her long lashes with a curious and intense interest. This, then, was the Lord Trafford, the eldest son of the great Duke of Belfayre, who would some day himself be the great Duke of Belfayre. Yes, he was very handsome. Lord Norman had not exaggerated. And she understood, as she scanned him, with a woman’s comprehensive glance, what Norman had meant when he had said that his cousin was far and away above all other men. She felt, though she could not have explained why, that he was the most distinguished-looking man in the room, though there was no broad blue ribbon across his breast, and only a dark-looking stone—she did not know that it was a black pearl—in his shirt-front for jewelry. Suddenly he looked down at her; so suddenly—and yet not abruptly—that she lowered her eyes quickly.
“You are sitting in a draught, Miss Chetwynde,” he said. “Come into this seat,” and he indicated one a little further into the conservatory.
Esmeralda obeyed.
“Was there a draught?” she said. “It didn’t matter. Lady Wyndover minds them, but it makes no difference to me; I never catch cold. I suppose it is because I am used to draughts.”
As she spoke, he looked at her intently, and seemed to listen eagerly, and with a slight frown, as if he were puzzled.
“You have only just come to England?” he said.
“Only a little while ago—about a week,” said Esmeralda.
“And you have been away, on the Continent?” he asked.
“No; I came straight from Australia,” she said. “I have never been anywhere else.”
His brows contracted, and he looked still more puzzled. A faint smile curved Esmeralda’s lips. She knew that he was trying to remember where he had seen her.