“Not quite,” she said, and she glanced shyly at the engagement-ring on her finger. “Lilias is here,” she said; “but of course she is trying a dress on. She will be down presently.”
“Never mind Lilias,” he said. “We do not seem to have been alone together, Esmeralda, for a long time.”
“It is ever so long,” she said.
He lingered some time, and, unconsciously, seemed loath to depart; and, when he left her, it was with a whispered “Until to-morrow,” which had a ring in it that was quite new to his voice. He walked home thinking of the wedding. Now and again the remembrance of Ada came to trouble him, but he thrust it away from him. He would think of nothing and no one that night but Esmeralda, the girl he was going to make his wife, the girl he was going to vow to love and cherish, the girl who was going to give him so much—her own sweet self, her wealth, and her love—in exchange for what?
As he opened the door of his sitting-room, some one rose from the depths of an arm-chair. It was a young man. The lamp was shaded, and Trafford did not recognize him for a moment.
“Halloo, Traff! Here you are at last!” said a boyish voice.
Trafford uttered an exclamation, and came forward with outstretched hand.
“Why, Norman!” he cried. “Is it really you? My dear fellow, I am glad to see you.”
The two men grasped and wrung hands, and Norman looked at his cousin with all the old admiration and devotion; and Trafford’s grave face lighted up with pleased surprise and affection.
“I’ve astonished you, I expect,” said Norman. “I am about the last person you expected to see.”