“Didn’t they have any looking-glasses where she came from, I wonder!” she said to herself.
Esmeralda went down-stairs, and a footman opened the door of the drawing-room for her. Lady Wyndover had not come down yet, and Esmeralda had time to look round the magnificent room. She had thought it impossible that anything could be more beautiful than the boudoir, but that dainty apartment paled into insignificance before the stately salon, with its molded ceiling, brocaded hangings, and Chippendale furniture.
She was still standing in the center of the room, looking round her, when Lady Wyndover entered. She was in evening dress, though not in full war-paint, and Esmeralda gazed with grave wonder at the black lace frock, from which her ladyship’s neck and arms issued like white marble. Lady Wyndover looked her ward up and down.
“You look very nice, dear,” she said; “though, of course, the dress is not quite right. But never mind; Cerise will send the things home very soon—I made a point of it—and then—well, then,” with a smile, “you will see.”
The solemn butler announced dinner, and Lady Wyndover, linking her arm in Esmeralda’s, led her into the dining-room.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
Esmeralda was getting almost tired of being surprised, and she looked at the appointments of the room, the table, with its snowy damask and glass and silver, amidst which the hot-house flowers seemed to be growing; at the two footmen, who moved to and fro noiselessly, and had handed the dishes as if they were automatons, with a kind of dull wonder.
“I thought it would be nice to be alone to-night,” said Lady Wyndover. “I hope you won’t find it dull, dear.”
Esmeralda laughed, as she thought of the solitude of Australia, and the hours she had spent in the hut with only Mother Melinda, asleep in a corner, for company.