Lady Wyndover ate a dinner that would have scarcely satisfied a healthy sparrow; but Esmeralda, upon whose appetite the cake had produced no effect, partook of everything that was offered to her, and Lady Wyndover leaned back and watched her, with a smile of wonder and envy. What the butler and footmen thought can be imagined; their faces, of course, showed nothing.
When the meal, which appeared to Esmeralda to be interminable, at last came to a close, Lady Wyndover took her back to the drawing-room.
“Choose the most comfortable chair, dear,” she said, as she reclined on a lounge. “I forgot to ask if you played or sung.”
“The piano, do you mean?” said Esmeralda. “No, I can’t. There was a piano in the Eldorado, and one or two of the men used to play; but there was no one to teach me.”
“The Eldorado? That was the school, I suppose. What a funny name for it!”
“The school?” said Esmeralda. “No, there isn’t any school. It was Dan MacGrath’s drinking saloon.”
Lady Wyndover half closed her eyes. It was really too dreadful.
“I used to sing sometimes,” Esmeralda continued. “I thought I could sing until”—she had nearly said, “until I heard The Rosebud,” but she checked herself. Somehow, she felt reluctant to mention him to Lady Wyndover.
“Perhaps you’d better take lessons,” said her ladyship, looking at her thoughtfully. “You are not too old. One quite forgets that you are so young; you are so tall and—and grown-uppish.”
“I don’t think any one could teach me,” said Esmeralda, calmly. “I shouldn’t have the patience. The Penman used to say that the only way to keep me sitting quiet would be to tie me down, hands and feet; and that wouldn’t do for learning the piano, would it?” and she laughed.