Norman leaned forward in his chair, with eager interest and excitement.
“I’m awfully glad, old fellow! Tell me all about her. What is she like? Is she young, pretty?”
“Yes; she is very young,” said Trafford, “and she is very beautiful. But you will see her to-morrow, and judge for yourself.”
Norman reached for Trafford’s hand, and wrung it. “I congratulate you, dear old Traff,” he said. “This is jolly news to get the moment I come back! Where did you meet her?”
“She is a ward of Lady Wyndover’s,” said Trafford.
“Of Lady Wyndover’s?” said Norman. “I don’t remember any ward or relation of hers of that name.”
“No; she has only recently come under her care.”
“Very young, and very beautiful,” said Norman; “and—and forgive me, dear old chap—is she rich?”
“She is very rich,” said Trafford, almost grimly. “There is nothing to forgive. You know how necessary the money is.”
“I know—I know,” said Norman, hastily and shyly. “And you’re going to be married to-morrow? I long to see her.”