“Miss Chetwynde is not a Warwickshire Chetwynde—fortunately,” said Lord Selvaine, blandly.
Trafford looked at his plate.
“Ah! probably she belongs to the Suffolk branch?” said the duke. “She really is witty!” He chuckled as if he were recalling something Esmeralda had said. “And so exceedingly beautiful, too—not that that matters!”
“All women should be beautiful,” said Lord Selvaine.
“All women are, my dear Selvaine,” said the duke, with delicious courtliness. “But few are as beautiful as Miss Chetwynde. My dear Trafford, I congratulate you with all my heart. You have shown excellent taste—as you always do. My dear boy, you have made me very happy. I could almost say that I am as happy as you must be—though that is impossible.”
Trafford looked straight before him at the opposite wall. And at that moment he did not look very happy, for there rose before him the face of Ada Lancing, and he seemed to hear her voice, hoarse with agony.
Lord Selvaine, as he watched him covertly, saw the handsome face grow pale, and the hand that held the wine-glass close so tightly that the slender stem snapped in two.
[CHAPTER XVII.]
To Esmeralda, Belfayre was a Palace of Delight. It was not so much the magnificence, the luxury and regal splendor of the place, nor its vastness which gave her so much pleasure, as the fact that there she was indeed “in the country,” that she was within reach of the sea—a never-ceasing wonder to her—and that she was surrounded by animals—horses, dogs, cattle—with which she could make friends.