“I suppose not,” said Ada. “Some day he will meet the lady who is fated to be his wife. She will be a very lucky person, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Esmeralda. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Lady Ada looked round the room, and smiled half bitterly.
“You are so delightfully innocent, Miss Chetwynde,” she said, “that in talking to you one feels like a serpent in the garden of Eden, and I feel almost ashamed to say what I was going to say.”
“What was that?” asked Esmeralda.
“That there is not a girl in this room who would not be half mad with delight if Lord Trafford were to ask her to be his wife.”
“But they can’t all be in love with him!” said Esmeralda, after a moment’s consideration of this startling assertion.
Lady Ada leaned back wearily. Her task was harder than she had thought it would be—seemed well-nigh hopeless.
“Perhaps not,” she said; “but they are one and all in love with his title—with his position. It is a great thing to be the Duchess of Belfayre.”
“Is it?” said Esmeralda. “I dare say it is, if you say so. I don’t know anything about it; but I dare say I shall learn in time.”