“A kind of ‘Belle Sauvage,’ I suppose?”
“No, indeed! She looks just like any one else,” rejoined the first lady. “She is perfectly dressed—of course Lady Wyndover would see to that—and she seems quite—quite quiet and well behaved. I haven’t spoken to her yet.”
“Ah,” said the second voice, “I expect if you had your enthusiasm would have evaporated. You would find that she dropped her h’s, or talked through her nose.”
The other lady laughed.
“I dare say; she comes from the wilds of Australia. But it does not matter; she will become the rage, however she talks, or whatever she does, mark my words. Over two millions of money! Think of it! Oh, we shall have her photographs in all the shop-windows presently! Lord Selvaine has approved of her, he has been sitting beside her, and promenading with her half the evening. Yes, before long we shall all be wearing the ‘Chetwynde’ hat, or the ‘Chetwynde’ cape. Two millions! Think of it, dear!”
Lord Trafford, who had heard every word, colored, and looked down at Esmeralda.
“Shall we go into the ball-room?” he said, quietly.
“No!” said Esmeralda. There was a dash of color in her cheek, and her glorious eyes flashed under their lashes. “Yes, they are talking about me. It is not very kind, is it? I can’t help being born in Australia; and”—with a sudden thrill in her voice—“I wouldn’t if I could! And I can’t help having all this money! Oh, I hate England, and—and all the English people!”
She rose with a sudden gesture which, it must be confessed, had something savage in it. The words, the tone, the gesture, inexplicably recalled her to Trafford’s memory. He took her hand and drew it upon his arm.
“I know now!” he said in the tone of triumph and satisfaction we use when we have succeeded in remembering. “It was you who caught Lady Ada’s horse in the park yesterday.”