She led the way to the apartment set apart for Esmeralda, and Esmeralda, following her, entered a room almost as dainty as that which she’d left. In a dressing-room adjoining they found a maid gazing in a kind of despairing astonishment at a huge wooden box clamped with iron.
“This is your maid, dear,” said Lady Wyndover. “I didn’t know whether you would bring one, so I engaged her. Barker, this is Miss Chetwynde.”
Esmeralda, with a smile, held out her hand. The carefully trained Barker crimsoned to the roots of her neatly arranged hair, and looked appealingly at Lady Wyndover, who shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
Barker pretended not to see the outstretched hand, and knelt at the box, as if looking for some means of opening it.
“Here’s the key,” said Esmeralda, who couldn’t understand why the girl refused to shake hands.
Barker opened the box, and proceeded to disentomb its contents.
Lady Wyndover glanced at them, found it impossible this time to repress a shudder, and faintly dismissed Barker, who fled down to the servants’ hall to recount her strange experiences with the new young lady.
Lady Wyndover touched with the tips of her fingers the dresses which Esmeralda had purchased.
“Very nice—very nice, indeed, dear,” she said, heroically. “But—but not quite suitable for London, or for a girl of your position.”
“No?” said Esmeralda, quite calmly. “I thought they were rather pretty. But you know, of course.”