“She is surpassing herself to-night, Trafford,” he said. “Don’t let her tire herself too much. She is very precious to me—as to you.”
Trafford could not speak. He turned back into the room and looked round for her. He could not see her.
When the duke had gone, Esmeralda had suddenly begun to feel weary; the excitement was bringing about the reaction. Almost abruptly she left a group and passed into the fernery and stood, drooping like one of the exotics, her arms hanging at her side, the golden heart rising and falling on her bosom slowly and heavily. If she could have done so she would have gone straight to her room. She sunk on to a seat and let her head fall upon her arm outstretched upon the back of the bench.
Norman’s voice roused her.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” he said. “I mean I have startled you, haven’t I?”
“No,” she said, looking up. Then she smiled faintly as she saw him look round. “You did not expect to see me—you thought it was some one else? Shall I guess?”
He colored guiltily.
“I—I thought I saw her pass this way,” he said.
“If so, she will come back presently,” said Esmeralda. “And if she does, are you going to take the advice I gave you this morning and tell her that, though you are only a pauper, as you call it, and you’ve no money, you’ve grit enough to ask her to be your wife?”
He looked at her, the color coming and going in his face.