“Esmeralda!” he said, in amazement. “My dear one, you—you are not serious?” He took her hand and held it caressingly, soothingly. “Such words hurt me, though they are only in jest. You can not be serious. And yet—let me look at you!”
She did not resist as he drew her round slightly so that he could see the whole of her face, but she was passive only, and her eyes looked over his head and beyond him with a dull kind of resentment.
“Something has happened to trouble you,” he said, very gently—“something since we arrived. What is it? Don’t you like this place, the servants? What is it? We need only stay the night; we need not stay even so long if you would rather go. Tell me, Esmeralda.”
“The place is very well,” she said, and her voice came slowly, painfully. “I do not wish to go—unless—”
“Unless—what?” he asked. “Be frank with me, dearest. You should have no thought that I do not share. You say that you are unhappy. Great heavens! I can scarcely believe my ears.” He tried to smile. “You know that all my life is devoted to making you happy. Tell me what is wrong?”
“Do you wish me to tell you?” she asked.
His surprise grew at her tone and manner.
“I do wish it,” he said, gravely. “There should be no secret concealments between us, dearest.”
“You think that, you say that,” she said, with a kind of sad bitterness. “Would you answer me frankly, truthfully, if I were to ask you a question, Lord Trafford?”
“‘Lord Trafford!’” he said, raising his brows. “Why do you call me by my title, Esmeralda? For God’s sake, let us get to the bottom of this mystery at once, for it is a mystery to me. Of course I will answer you, and frankly and truthfully. I am not in the habit—” He checked himself and spoke more gently. “What is it, dear one?”