“I don’t know anything,” she said, with a laugh. They reached the summit. “Those are good horses of yours,” she said, again; “they seem as fresh as when they started.”
“Would you like to drive?” he asked, catching a tone of eagerness in her voice.
“May I?” she said.
He changed places with her, and she took the reins and the whip in true coachman-like fashion; and she laughed, and her eyes flashed, and her lips parted, as she drove the splendid bays along the top of the hill; and Trafford looked at her, and the sense of her beauty and her youth smote him for the first time in all its fullness.
She seemed quite unconscious of his presence—certainly quite unconscious of his gaze—as she sat, straight as an arrow, holding the high-spirited horses in complete control. Presently it began to rain. She did not notice it; but he leaned over to the back of the phaeton, and fished up a capacious ulster of Irish frieze.
“Put this on,” he said.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right!”
“What would Lady Wyndover say if I took you back soaking wet? Pull up for a moment, and stand up.”
She stood up. He spoke a word to the horses, and brought them to a standstill, and put the ulster round her; but, capacious as it was, he found some difficulty in coaxing it over the sealskin jacket. He was very close to her; his arm, so to speak, went round her. He could feel her breath upon his cheek.
It has been said more than once that Esmeralda was one of the loveliest daughters of Eve; Trafford was a son of Adam. The blood surged tumultuously in his veins, his arms tightened round her, and he whispered her name.