Mother Melinda nodded.
“I’m feared he be,” she said. “He’s in a kind o’ fever through havin’ that bullet in him so long.” After a pause she remarked: “He’s main pretty to look at, ain’t he, Ralda? Like a girl a’most, with them eyes and that hair.”
Esmeralda nodded.
“I want another towel to soak in water for his head,” said Mother Melinda, presently. “Run down to the hut, Ralda, dear, and get it, will you?”
“You go,” said Esmeralda. “I’ll wait here.”
Mother Melinda threw a shawl over her head and hurried off, and Esmeralda damped the towel afresh and bathed the burning forehead. Norman was talking all the while an unbroken string of words, and Esmeralda listened.
At times he was back again in England and among his own people. He spoke of his mother, of the Manor, of his club in London.
Esmeralda caught many names of persons and places; but one—the name of a person—he repeated so often that it impressed her.
It was “Trafford.”
“Trafford,” muttered Lord Norman, “I give you my word this is the last time. It’s a lot of money. Are you sure you can spare it? Trafford, I saw Ada to-day. She said”—he wandered off the line again—“The horse ought to have won. It was only four to three against it. Mother, I’d much better go. Trafford thinks so, too. I’m only going to the dogs here in town. I’ll go somewhere and make a fortune. Trafford—Ada! We all went to supper at the Cri— Trafford—Trafford!”