Trafford went upstairs, preceded by one of the footmen, who opened the door leading from the corridor to the suite of rooms always set apart and kept in perfect readiness for the marquis. They were among the best and stateliest in the house, as befitted the future duke and master; but, although they were magnificently and perfectly appointed, it may be hazarded that Trafford was quite as comfortable in his much smaller and more modest chambers in the Albany. His valet, who had come down in the same train, and ridden on the box-seat of the barouche, assisted his master to change his clothes; then Trafford went down-stairs, and into the library.
It was the smallest of the reception-rooms, but as wonderful in its way as the stateliest of the saloons and the huge dining-room. The walls were lined with book-cases of rosewood, relieved by ormolu and Wedgwood plaques; some of the volumes were priceless; and the library, as a whole, was a famous one. A fire was burning, and beside it, in an easy-chair, reclined the Duke of Belfayre. He was tall and very thin, with snow-white hair and a perfectly colorless face, lined by innumerable wrinkles. With his clean-cut features, his long, white hands, his air of perfect repose and gracious benignity, he looked every inch a duke.
He had been singularly handsome, as was Trafford, and there was a strong resemblance between father and son. One noticed it in the expression in the eyes, in the movement of the brows, but, more markedly, in a certain turn of the head. His grace was listening, with a genial courtliness, to Lord Selvaine, and as Trafford entered, the wrinkled face beamed with a soft smile. Holding out the white hand, he said, in a musical voice, which echoed that of his son:
“Ah! Trafford, how do you do? It is very good of you to come down—Selvaine, too!”—he gave a little bow to Lord Selvaine—“very good of you both. You must have so much to do in London, and London can ill spare you, Selvaine. You are looking well, Trafford. Selvaine tells me that the season promises to be a very busy one. You begin much earlier now than we used to, and I think you continue it longer. You find the country looking well, Trafford?”
“Yes, sir,” said Trafford. “And you are quite well, I hope.”
“Quite—quite!” said the duke, cheerfully. “I am not quite so strong as I used to be, but one must not be surprised at that. Come and sit here.” He motioned to a seat beside him, and Trafford sat down, and put his hand on the arm of the duke’s chair. The old man laid his own hand upon his son’s strong one, and patted it. “I am glad you and Selvaine have come down, Trafford; indeed, I was on the point of asking Lilias to write, and ask you to do so; for I wanted to talk to you on a matter of business.”
“Yes, sir,” said Trafford.
“Yes,” said the duke, with a kind of placid eagerness, which one sees displayed by a child at the prospect of a new toy. “I have been thinking a great deal lately of that scheme which the famous architect—I am ashamed to say I forget his name; it began, if I remember rightly, with a P—the scheme which he laid before us respecting the Belfayre Bay.”
Trafford glanced at Lord Selvaine, but that gentleman did not remove his eyes from the fire, but leaned back in his chair as placidly impassive as if the matter to be discussed were either of no importance or of little interest to him.
“If you remember,” continued the duke in his soft voice, and with the same smile and manner, “that gentleman made an elaborate plan for transforming the bay into a watering-place.”