“One never can tell,” she said. “But I will promise; yes, and—and, Norman, you shall be the friend you want to be to me, because—because of that night we will both forget after this.”
She put out her hand to him impulsively, and he took it, held it for a moment in his firm grasp, then bent over and kissed it.
Trafford sat beside Lilias for a time, and all her talk was about Esmeralda—how beautiful she was, how exquisitely the dress suited her, of how happy Trafford must be. It was almost unendurable for him, but he made the proper responses, and smiled, and tried to look happy. Then he went to the piano where Ada was still softly touching the keys. He had thought it bad taste of her to come to Belfayre, and, as if she had discerned his thought, her first words, spoken in too low a voice to be heard by the others, were:
“Trafford, do not be angry. I could not help coming. I had told Lilias I was not going anywhere before she asked me.”
He smiled gravely.
“Why should you not come?” he said, ignoring the reason.
She drew a long breath.
“If you are not angry I do not mind. You can not think that I wanted to come? Have you been well?” she broke off to ask, looking at him intently.
“Quite well,” he responded. “Why do you ask?”