They crossed the hall into the dining-room, and found it to be almost as small as the drawing-room. The furniture was of light oak, and the tidy sideboard glistened with silver and cut glass. There were flowers there also. There was a small morning- and smoking-room behind it, and a conservatory glowing with simple plants; no orchids anywhere.
Trafford looked round with a smile of satisfaction and anticipation.
“I have often dreamed of this kind of house,” he said.
Esmeralda said nothing. Its petite beauty and rusticity would have filled her with delight under other circumstances; but it seemed just a prison to her, and no more.
“Will you come upstairs, my lady?” said Barker, who had hovered about them.
Esmeralda looked round to see who “my lady” was, then started to realize that it was herself, and she followed Barker up the narrow stairs, built and balustrated like a baronial staircase in miniature.
Trafford looked up after her.
“Get some rest, Esmeralda,” he said. “We shall not dine till—what hour, Barker?”
“Seven, Lady Wyndover said, my lord,” said the housekeeper, an elderly woman, who looked like a dean’s widow at the very least.
“Look after your mistress, Barker,” Trafford said; and the delighted Barker bowed, and said: