“I am afraid that you think our curiosity extremely rude and vulgar. But you see we have, after all, so few new sensations in London, that we welcome any one with so romantic a history as yours.”
“Is it romantic?” said Esmeralda. “You mean, like a story? Well, I should have thought there wasn’t anything very curious about it. Yes, people do stare, and I’ve seen things people print about me in the paper. It seems a lot of fuss about one girl, when there are such heaps here. But if it amuses them, I don’t mind; I suppose they’ll get tired of it before long, and find some one else to make a fuss about.”
“It is not unlikely,” said Lady Ada. “And I suppose you are enjoying your new life very much? I thought you were looking very happy just now when I saw you with Lord Trafford.”
It was a piece of insolent impertinence; but Esmeralda did not detect it, disguised as it was by a smile.
“Oh, yes, I am happy!” she said. “As you say, it’s all new to me, and everybody is very kind. Everybody asks me if I am happy.”
“Does Lord Trafford?” asked Ada, as if she could not help herself.
“I don’t remember,” said Esmeralda, innocently; “but he’s very kind; I like him.”
Lady Ada’s fan moved more quickly.
“I am not surprised at that,” she said, beginning on her hateful task. “Lord Trafford is one of the nicest men in London, and is kindness itself. I am a very old friend of his; we have known each other a great many years, and are like”—she paused a moment, and caught her breath—“like brother and sister. I admire him very much.”
“Yes, he is very handsome,” said Esmeralda, as coolly as before.