They talked of the palace and what she had seen, and avoided anything personal until at last Trafford said:
“I was not wrong about the welcome you would receive from my father and Lilias, Miss Chetwynde?” Then, before she could reply, he added: “Will you let me call you Esmeralda?”
She looked at him frankly.
“Why, yes, if you like.”
“And you must call me Trafford,” he said.
She laughed.
“Very well. It is like the bargain Lilias and I made yesterday. Yes, you were quite right. I don’t know why they were so kind to me—a stranger. But they were kind, very. I think I was a little frightened about meeting the duke. I don’t know what I expected—something very grand and awful, but he was not at all what I expected; and I think him the dearest old gentleman I have ever seen. I don’t think I could ever be frightened of him.”
Trafford smiled.
“I am glad you like my father,” he said. “Of course you know he has fallen in love with you? He talked of nothing else but you last night, and sung your praises tremendously.”
“I’m glad he likes me,” she said, simply.