Esmeralda had forgotten all about Trafford and Ada on the terrace, and was not aware that they had both been witnessing her interview with Norman, though they were too far off to hear a word. Trafford had watched the animated little scene with gloomy eyes, and Ada with a significant smile; he went down the steps as Esmeralda approached the terrace with her swift, light step. He saw that she was flushed, and that there was something like tears in her eyes. He looked from her to Norman, who still stood, a nice study for a statue of Perplexity.
Esmeralda was about to pass him, but he stopped her with a question.
“Have you been playing tennis?” he asked.
She looked at him for a moment, as if she had not heard, then she said, unsuspectingly:
“No; I’ve only been talking to Norman.”
“Judging by appearances,” he said, “it must have been an interesting conversation.”
“It was,” she said. She looked at him wistfully for a moment, thinking that if all were well between them, how she should like to tell him of Norman’s secret, how she should like to plan with him some way of giving Norman the money which would enable him to ask for Lilias; but she remembered the gulf between them—the sight of Ada leaning on the terrace rail reminded her forcibly of it—and she remained silent. Trafford stood still, his face overcast, struggling against the growth of the suspicion which Ada had planted in his mind, and which Esmeralda’s conduct and manner seemed to justify. She waited a moment or two as if to see if he wished to say anything more to her, then went into the house. As they passed her, Ada said: “How hot it is!” and Esmeralda made the proper response and gave a suitable smile. She met Lilias in the hall.
“There is a young man waiting for you, dear,” she said, “with a tennis racket in his hand and bad words in his mouth.”
Lilias blushed ever so faintly and sweetly.