“We have arrived,” Trafford said. “Are you rested, dearest?”
She started at the endearing term.
“Yes, yes,” she said in a subdued voice. “How long it has been!”
“Yes, I’m afraid it has been too long, too tiring for you,” he said. “Perhaps, after all, we ought to have gone by train.”
The carriage drew up at the house, and the footman opened the door. Barker, who had come by train, was on the steps. Esmeralda saw a pretty cottage, with brown beams projecting through the cream-colored stone, and with lattice windows daintily curtained with muslin.
The hall was a miniature affair, with old oak furniture. There was a big china bowl of roses on the table; a sweet perfume of “country” flowers—and how different they are to the effete London orchid—through the place. Trafford dismissed the carriage—they had Esmeralda’s pair of ponies and a “jingle”—a square governess cart—then led the way to the drawing-room.
It was tiny but exquisitely dainty, with its decoration of white and gold and its light Japanese furniture. Another bowl of roses stood on a side table near the Lilliputian piano.
He took Esmeralda’s hand.
“It is fairyland!” he said, with a laugh. “Let us explore.”