“I’m not worrying about it,” she said, sinking on to the grass; “and there is—Trafford.”
“Oh, Trafford,” he said, disgustedly. “He seems to have dropped tennis and everything that is wholesome. He and Ada have been stalking up and down the terrace talking books or the improvement of the working classes, as if they weren’t bad enough already. If I went and asked Trafford or Ada to play, they’d stare and smile at me in the superior way that makes a man want to go and shy stones at his grandfather. And as for Lilias—well, I’d better not express my sentiments about that young lady.”
Esmeralda looked at him curiously. His voice had dropped as he spoke Lilias’s name.
“Any one would think that the whole place would come to a standstill if she didn’t fuss around with the housekeeper and the butler and the steward and the rest of them. What do the housekeeper and the butler do for their wages, I should like to know? Any one would think Lilias was the manager of a hotel.”
“Yes,” said Esmeralda, quietly. “It is I who ought to do all she does, and fuss around.”
“Oh—you?” he said, quickly. “That’s different. No one expects you to do anything but”—he looked at her with a quaint mixture of admiration and devotion—brotherly devotion—“but just exist and look beautiful.”
Esmeralda did not blush.
“Thanks,” she said again.
“Oh, it’s quite different with you,” he went on. “And it’s all right that Lilias should look after things.”
“But she need not neglect you in doing so,” said Esmeralda, naïvely.