“And being a countess and having plenty of money,” continued Esmeralda, with a hard laugh, “I could not be anything but happy, could I? Why, all the women envy me, as Lady Wyndover says, and what more could I want?”
He looked at her with a troubled frown on his face.
“I don’t know whether you are chaffing me or not; I suppose you are,” he said.
“What does it matter?” she said, with the same weary impatience.
“It matters a great deal to me,” he retorted, his face flushing then growing pale. “I’ve tried to forget—forget Three Star, and I mean to: don’t be angry, but hear me out,” for she had made as if to interrupt him. “But—but though you wouldn’t listen to me—and you were quite right—and as you are Traff’s wife, I should like you to let me be your friend. Oh, Lord! that sounds tame and feeble! Look here, Esmeralda, what I mean is that I should like to be your special friend, some one you could come to if you were in trouble, some one to fetch and carry for you—you know what I mean. I’d go to the end of the world for you, not only because you’re Traff’s wife, but—but because”—he turned his head away. Esmeralda fancied that there might be tears in his eyes—“because of—of that night by the stream at Three Star.”
She looked straight before her. She felt that, had she not been Traff’s wife, he would have loved her still, and the thought fell upon her love-thirsty heart with a strange and dangerous sense of comfort.
“I know what you mean, Norman,” she said in a very low voice, “and I’m very grateful to you. If ever I am in any trouble that you can help me in, I will come to you.”
“That’s a promise,” he said, eagerly. “Not that you are ever likely to be,” he added, almost in a tone of regret.
She smiled gravely.