“Oh, here you are, Trafford,” said Lord Blankyre; “I am sorry to have found you, for Lady Ada promised me this dance, if I failed to do so.”
Esmeralda looked fixedly at the fair girl she had saved from a broken limb or worse—looked with a kind of wonder, for Lady Ada Lancing, in ball-room costume, was a vision lovely enough to evoke wonder from any heart, male or female. She wore a dress of palest blue, covered with a cream lace of finest spider-web, and, with her delicate complexion, looked like a chef d’œuvre in biscuit china.
Lord Trafford bowed to Esmeralda.
“I hope we shall meet again, Miss Chetwynde,” he said, and went off with Lady Ada on his arm.
Esmeralda nodded—the free-and-easy Three Star nod—and sunk into her chair. She was instantly surrounded by men who had been waiting for their opportunity, and when Lady Wyndover found her she was hemmed in by a circle of courtiers competing for her smiles.
The ball was almost over, and Lord Trafford had conducted Lady Ada to the brougham which she shared with her watch-dog and cousin, Lady Grange, and was hesitating between his club and bed, when Lord Selvaine came up and touched him on the shoulder.
“Going home, Trafford? Take me with you, and give me a soda and whisky, will you?”
“Certainly,” he said in his grave fashion.
They got into a hansom, and were driven to Lord Trafford’s chambers in the Albany. Lord Trafford turned up the incandescent light, and motioned his uncle into the most comfortable chair, and produced the spirit-stand and syphon. His man had gone to his virtuous couch hours ago; for Lord Trafford was eccentric enough to study his servant’s comfort.