“Thanks, old man,” said Norman, with the brusqueness with which men hide their emotions. “And look here, I found a little trifle, which I should like to give her, if she’ll accept it. It’s not much of a thing, but—” He pulled out a small locket, the acquisition of which had, as he would have put it, nearly brought him to a condition of “stone broke.”
“You shall give it to her yourself,” said Trafford. “We will go round there directly. Ffoulkes doesn’t turn up here for another couple of hours. What a swell you look! Any one would take you for the bridegroom. I sha’n’t put on my wedding garments till we come back.”
They walked round to Grosvenor Square, talking together like old friends and comrades. Norman had no end of adventures by flood and field to relate, but he said nothing of Three Star or Esmeralda Howard. For one thing, he did not want to thrust his disappointment upon Trafford’s joy.
The footman looked rather doubtful when Trafford inquired if he could see Miss Chetwynde.
“I’ll send up word to her, my lord,” he said, as he showed the two gentlemen into the drawing-room.
“Perhaps we ought not to have come, after all,” said Norman. Then they heard a light step on the stairs; but it was Ada Lancing, not Esmeralda. She was very pale, and she looked startled.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly, and as if she did not see Norman.
“No, no,” said Trafford, gravely. The sight of her was not very welcome to him. “Here is Norman; don’t you see him? He only came back last night, and I had a fancy to bring him round this morning.”
“Oh, yes—yes,” she said, recovering herself, and holding out her hand. “I thought something had happened, by your coming.”