She took the compliment as coolly as if he had remarked that it was a fine evening.
“Would you like to go back now?” he asked.
“In a minute,” she replied, calmly. “It is beautiful out here, and it makes me think of the country, as you Londoners call places outside.”
“You miss the country, as we Londoners call it?” he said.
“Yes, sometimes,” she replied, very softly—“when I’ve time to think; but that isn’t often, it’s all such a whirl. It’s only when I’m lying awake that I think of Australia, and sometimes wish myself back. And then Barker comes in—that’s my maid—and tells me I must dress; and that we’ve got to go here, there, and everywhere; to buy this and that and everything; and all day there’s no time to think.”
He leaned with his back against the rail, and looked at her thoughtfully. Now, the lovely face was as pensive as that of a child. The charm of her utter self-unconsciousness, and ignorance of pose, and absence of straining after effect, was stealing over him; and when she said, “Now we’ll go in,” he started slightly, and, with something like reluctance, took her hand upon his arm and led her back to the ball-room. As they entered they found themselves face to face with Lady Ada. She was with her partner in the last dance. The two couples stopped, and Trafford found himself, perhaps for the first time in his life, bereft of the power of speech. Lady Ada was very pale, and there were faint shadows under the blue eyes. He saw her lips tighten and the lids droop, as if she were wincing; then she recovered herself almost instantly, and, with a smile, as she returned his bow, said:
“Will you introduce me to Miss Chetwynde, Lord Trafford?”
Her partner bowed himself off, and the three were left alone.
Trafford made the introduction.
“But you have met Miss Chetwynde before, Lady Ada,” he said; “she is the lady who came to our rescue in the park the other day.”