“You look—” She paused. “That dress suits you, my lady,” she said, with suppressed admiration.
Trafford was waiting for her in the tiny drawing-room. He looked a little impatient—for the first time since she had known him—and a little restless. She noticed that he wore a diamond in his shirt-front instead of the black pearl. As his eyes rested on her, they lighted up with a strange expression. There was admiration in it, and something more, something that made her heart leap for all its aching misery.
“How well you look!” he said in an undertone. “You have been resting? That is right. That is a beautiful dress. Is it one of the new ones?”
Two days ago his praise, the warmth of his admiration, would have thrilled her, now—
“I think so,” she said, quietly.
He gave her his arm and they went in to dinner.
The cook, though a woman, was an artist, and the dinner was a good one. A pretty maid waited, and waited well.
Esmeralda could scarcely eat, but she made a pretense of doing so, and Trafford, though he noticed her lack of appetite, made no remark. Once or twice he leaned forward, from his end of the table, with the champagne to fill her glass; but it remained full as the maid had at first filled it.
He did all the talking, and, even to him, she seemed strangely silent.