Esmeralda’s face grew hot, and she looked straight before her.
“You have been a long while remembering,” she said.
“Forgive me!” he pleaded. “Please, please forgive me! The difference in dress, the— How brave it was of you!”
“Oh!” she said, quietly, but with an upraising of her brows. “I thought it was very foolish! I’ve been told that it was—was unlady-like to interfere. Another time I shall stand quite still, and let happen what will.”
He looked at her.
“No, you will not!” he said. “You could not, Miss Chetwynde. I am glad I have met you to-night; I want to tell you how much I admired—appreciated—your courage, your presence of mind! Another woman, girl, would have screamed or run away.”
“I never scream; and I don’t run away,” said Esmeralda, as if she were stating a mere matter of fact.
“I can believe it!” he said. “I can believe anything of you that is brave and noble. And I beg you, on your part, to believe that we, in England, are not all like these silly, brainless chatterers.” He waved his hand toward the palms.
Esmeralda’s heart beat tumultuously. His voice, his manner—now so full of life and spirit—affected her strangely. She could not look at him, but gazed straight before her; and as she looked—through a mist, as it were—she saw a tall, graceful girl, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, coming toward them, on the arm of Lord Blankyre. It was the lady whom she had saved in the park.
Lord Trafford did not see her; he was intent upon Esmeralda’s face.