[CHAPTER XIII.]
Trafford went straight from Eaton Square to his club. He had had the worst quarter of an hour in his life, and felt extremely unhappy, and as if he were a brute and a monster of the cruelest type. And yet he knew that he had done the right thing, and he tried to console himself with the reflection that he had behaved as became a gentleman and a man of honor; but Ada Lancing’s face, lined with agony, and her voice broken and wailing, haunted him.
He went into the smoking-room of the Marlborough and lighted a cigar—that solatium of the angry, the wounded, the wearied, and the sore oppressed. He had not been there five minutes before a young friend entered and hailed him with sprightly welcome. He was a wild young Irish viscount, Lord Dunworthy, who was rapidly running through a fortune which he had recently inherited, and enjoying life as only a young Irishman can. He was the gossip of the club, and Trafford usually liked to listen to his light-hearted chatter; but he could have dispensed with it this afternoon.
“Halloo, Trafford!” said the young fellow. “I’m in luck! Who’d have thought of seeing you here at this time of day! Have a whisky and soda? I’m going to!”
Trafford declined the proffered drink, and Lord Dunworthy swiftly consumed his, and sat himself down beside Trafford for a talk. He retailed the gossip of the day, but suddenly broke off to exclaim:
“I say, Trafford, were you at the Blankyres’ the other night?”
Trafford nodded.
“I didn’t go; I wish I had, for I should have seen the heiress they are all talking about. She was at the Fletchers’ last night, but I got there too late, and she’d gone before I arrived. Is she as beautiful as they say she is?”
“Do you mean Miss Chetwynde?” asked Trafford, gravely.