Esmeralda seemed absorbed in her book, and to have quite forgotten Lord Trafford as soon as he departed.
They met again that night at a reception, and Trafford spent some time talking with her. It is scarcely necessary to say that they were watched, and a whisper went round that the Marquis of Trafford was for the first time “serious,” and that he had marked the Golden Savage for his own.
The following afternoon, at the hour appointed, he drove the mail phaeton up to the door, and Esmeralda, who had been quite ready five minutes before the time, clapped her hands, and uttered an exclamation of delight as she saw the pair of splendid horses.
“I don’t know whether you mind not having a groom,” said Trafford, as she and Lady Wyndover came out; “but mine has hurt his leg, and I hate having a strange man.”
Lady Wyndover said she didn’t mind in the least, and she insisted on his putting her in the back seat. “I’d rather Esmeralda rode in front,” she said. “If I can see the horses I am always under the impression they are going to bolt; besides, if there’s any wind, you’ll shelter me.”
Esmeralda climbed up to the front seat without any assistance from Trafford, and they drove off. He glanced at her. She wore a neat little felt hat and a sealskin jacket, and she looked, even to his critical eyes, perfectly dressed and workman-like.
“I am going to take you to a place called Shirley,” he said. “It is wonderfully wild, and there will be a splendid view, if it isn’t misty.”
“All right,” said Esmeralda. “I shall like that. But I don’t care where we go. Those are good horses!” They drove on, chatting together, Trafford turning now and again to exchange a word with Lady Wyndover, till they had got on the Surrey road; and up to then, all went merry as a marriage-bell; but suddenly the sky grew overcast, and the day grew colder, and Lady Wyndover drew her furs about her, and shuddered.
Trafford, looking round suddenly, saw her misery, and said, penitently:
“I’m afraid you are getting cold, Lady Wyndover!”