“Oh, yes, yes,” she assented, gravely.
Something in her tone struck him, as the expression in her eyes had done. What was it? He glanced toward Trafford and then at her.
“This room seems hot,” he said.
“It is hot,” she assented, drawing a quick breath.
“Let us come outside,” he said; “I’ll get you a shawl or something.”
“No, no,” she said; “it will be quite warm out there. I hate being smothered up.”
He noticed the novel impatience in her manner. They went on to the terrace and along the winding path through the lawn. They were silent for a little while. Norman was troubled by something that he thought he ought to say, and wondering whether, after all, he had better not leave it unsaid. At last he said, speaking in a low and embarrassed manner:
“I haven’t seen you since the wedding. I—I wanted to tell you how sorry I’ve been that I rushed myself upon you that morning.”
Esmeralda looked at him, and then straight before her, but said nothing.
“I could have knocked my head off, and Trafford’s too,” he blundered on. “Of course it was a shock to you, seeing me all in a moment and without a word of warning.”