“And you own all this?” she asked, pausing to look round. “All the houses, all the farms, and the people?”
“My father does,” he said, with a smile. “But not the people, Esmeralda.”
“It is almost as if you did,” she said, shrewdly. “They all look at you and speak to you as if you were a kind of prince. It must be rather nice to be like that.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say: “You have only to say the word, and you can share in this proprietorship,” but he held himself in hand. He did not want a decided refusal; and something told him he had not won her yet, and that the “No” would certainly be forthcoming.
When they reached home they found the duke up and awaiting them; for he rarely left his own apartments until late in the afternoon.
He greeted Esmeralda warmly, and even affectionately, and looked up at her face, glowing with her long walk, with unstinted admiration.
“I hope Trafford has not tired you, my dear!” he said. “Come and tell me what you have seen.” And he motioned her to a chair beside him.
Esmeralda told of the stables, and the farms, and the sea; and his grace nodded his head and smiled at her enthusiasm; but he was not quite satisfied.
“Trafford did not show you the ruins of the old priory, or the lake,” he said. “I can’t think how he forgot those! Will you come for a drive this afternoon with me and see them? There is a pony-phaeton low enough for me to climb into.”