“Of course! Nobody’s talking of any one else. They tell me that she created a tremendous sensation at the Blankyres’; and last night, at the Fletchers’, there was such a mob round her that you couldn’t get near her. And did you see ‘Society Chatter’ this morning?”
Trafford said that he never read the paper.
“Ah! not much in your line! Well, there’s nearly a page about her. It gives a full account of how she was found out in Australia, and an exhaustive description of her dresses. They say she’s worth two millions, and that she’s one of the most charming girls that ever came to London. She’s going to be the rage this season, you mark my words. Is it true that she drops her h’s, and otherwise murders the Queen’s English?”
“It is not true,” said Trafford, rather grimly, and angry with himself for feeling angry.
“No? Not that it matters. I suppose it’s all right about the coin?”
“I don’t know; I believe so!” said Trafford. “I know nothing of Miss Chetwynde; and I only talked with her for a few minutes. I didn’t ask her if she possessed two millions.”
The young fellow looked at him with some little surprise; Trafford was not usually short-tempered or irritable.
“All right, old chap; didn’t mean anything offensive; didn’t know she was a friend of yours.”
“I can lay no claim to Miss Chetwynde’s friendship,” said Trafford, trying to smile.
“That’s all right. I shall see her myself to-night; she is going to the Villiers’, and you bet I sha’n’t be late this time. They say that Lady Wyndover is in the seventh heaven of delight at having such a ward, and that no one less than a prince of the blood will be good enough for her. Shall you go to-night?”