“Yes, to-morrow!” she said, eagerly. “And we shall go into the real country, away from all these houses?”
“Into the real country,” he said. “And we need not go very far. But I can’t promise you anything like Australia.”
“Ah, no!” she said, with a little pensive look in her eyes; “there is nothing like that.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, invitingly; and he drew her out as an experienced man of the world can so easily do when he is dealing with an unsophisticated girl. But, though Esmeralda talked of the gold digging, the wild camps, the broad valleys, the lofty mountains, the intense heat—in short, the place that had been home to her—she mentioned no names; only alluded to Varley Howard as her guardian, and said absolutely nothing of Norman Druce.
Trafford leaned back and listened to her, and watched the play of her expressive countenance with a strange mixture of sensations. Her evident affection for her old home, her natural eloquence—for there was eloquence in her description—charmed him, and only now and again was he repelled by some word or phrase which, though they were softened by the musical voice and innocence of the speaker, reminded him that she was a waif from the wilds. His manner toward her was gravely deferential and gentle, and that, on its side, had a charm for Esmeralda. Without knowing it she began to understand why Norman Druce had been so enthusiastic in his laudations of this cousin of his.
Lady Wyndover, coming in suddenly, found the two looking over a volume of prints, and laughing together quite unreservedly; and her ladyship heartily wished that she had remained out another half hour. Trafford grew grave again at her entrance, and repeated his invitation for the drive in more formal terms.
Lady Wyndover accepted at once, though the mere prospect of driving in an open carriage filled her with horror.
“We shall be delighted, dear Lord Trafford,” she said. “And I’m sure you couldn’t have given this girl a greater treat. She is always wailing and moaning for what she calls the open air.” She laid her hand on Esmeralda’s head as she spoke, and Trafford noticed the red-gold hair contrasted with Lady Wyndover’s white paw. Perhaps her ladyship intended him to notice it.
“You and Lord Trafford appear to be excellent friends, my dear,” she said, when he had gone.
“Oh, yes,” said Esmeralda, as she took up her book. “He is very pleasant and agreeable.” And, though Lady Wyndover tried to coax something more out of her, she failed.