He frowned darkly.
“Why do you trouble?” he said, almost harshly. “It is—”
“Despicable,” she filled in. “I know it. Do you think I don’t feel it—that I don’t know that I am earning your contempt? That’s a woman’s portion when she sacrifices herself for the man she— You would have thought more highly of me if I had made a scene—loaded you with reproaches, and cut you for the rest of my life. Most women would have acted thus; but it is my ill-fortune to care for you, not wisely, but too well.”
“Let it alone,” he said again. “You mean well, and I am not ungrateful; but you make my task harder instead of easier. You make me feel ashamed. Will you dance with me?”
“If you like,” she said, resignedly.
They had often danced together, and they moved as one. Esmeralda watched them with admiration that was not untinged by faint envy. Every now and then Trafford felt Ada’s hand grip his spasmodically, and presently she drooped upon him heavily.
“That will do,” she said, with a long sigh; “I am tired. Take me to Lady Grange; I want to go home.”
Trafford saw them to their carriage, and then returned to the ball-room; but he could not have got near Esmeralda again if he had desired to do so, for when she was not dancing she was surrounded by men who were more eager to pay their court to her than the Marquis of Trafford was. She saw him from a distance before he left, and wondered whether he would come to her again, and she was conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment that he did not do so. He was the handsomest—the most distinguished man in the room, in a way. And Esmeralda was—just a girl.
Lady Wyndover, who had not been unobservant, and who was thrilling with satisfaction at Trafford’s attention to her ward, talked of him nearly all the way home; but Esmeralda was very silent, and only answered in monosyllables; but she thought of him a great deal that night.