“Ah, well—she laughed,” said Norman, under his breath. “Pass the wine; I’m thirsty. It’s the heat, I suppose.”
Lord Selvaine pushed the decanter across.
“Esmeralda is looking well,” he said, in a casual way.
“Yes,” said Norman, abstractedly. “She is so pale, and—there is a strange look in her eyes—”
“I said ‘well,’” remarked the diplomatist, blandly.
Norman started and colored.
“Oh, yes, yes!” he said; “very well;” and he began talking to Trafford, as if he dreaded being drawn into a conversation about Esmeralda with Lord Selvaine.
The duke sat and sipped his thin claret with an air of perfect felicity. He had not noticed anything wrong in Esmeralda’s expression or manner, and that he was thinking of her beauty and queenliness was evident from the remark which he made to Trafford.
“I should like her portrait painted, Trafford. It has not yet been done, has it?”