“Why?” said Esmeralda, innocently.
He looked at her, almost asking himself if such self-unconsciousness could really exist.
“Is there no looking-glass at Lady Wyndover’s?” he asked. “Has no one told you that you are very beautiful?”
Esmeralda did not blush, and her brows did not relax.
“But there are so many beautiful women,” she said. “I have seen scores of them in the ball-rooms, great lady friends of yours. There is Lady Ada Lancing, for instance.”
He winced again.
“But you are not only beautiful,” he said; “you are—charming. Every one feels that. I felt it the first night we met. My people would be quick to appreciate it also. My uncle, Selvaine, thinks you—but I will not tell you what he says of you. He shall tell you himself. Will you be my wife, Esmeralda?”
She looked from side to side, like a timid animal at bay.
“I do not know what to say!” she said in a very low voice.
“You mean that you do not care for me?” he asked, almost humbly.