“I was startled,” said Esmeralda in a low voice.
“Of course you were,” he said, eagerly; “and—and so was I. I’d only come back to England the night before, and I didn’t know that you had changed your name—I mean, that you were Miss Chetwynde, the millionairess.”
“Don’t call me that,” said Esmeralda.
Norman wondered why she objected; but said, hastily:
“I beg your pardon. Since I left Three Star Camp, of course, I hadn’t heard of you. How should I?”
“How should you?” she repeated, absently.
“And I wanted to tell you, Esmeralda—I may call you Esmeralda, may I not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Esmeralda; “you may call me what you like. We are cousins, or something of that sort, are we not?”
“Thank you—yes. I wanted to say—I wanted to ask you to forgive me for—for what happened that night. It was presumptuous of me, and—and you were right to be angry and offended,” he added, humbly and penitently.
A faint color had risen to Esmeralda’s eyes.