Esmeralda started, and her hand closed tightly over her fan. This gentleman, who had thanked her so fervently in the park, this nephew of Lord Selvaine’s, was the “Trafford” of whom Norman Druce had talked in his delirium, whose praises he had sung so enthusiastically! Would he recognize her? She raised her eyes to his almost apprehensively; but he, as he bowed, looked at her with grave, absent-minded eyes, and it seemed to Esmeralda as if he scarcely saw her.

“Miss Chetwynde is Lady Wyndover’s ward,” said Lord Selvaine. “She has only just arrived in England, and this is her first acquaintance with Vanity Fair. I ought to add that she is wise enough not to dance, and so is reveling in the easy joys of the mere spectator.”

With a little smile and bow he moved away, and left them alone. Lord Trafford leaned against the wall, and gazed gravely at the crowd, almost as if he had forgotten Esmeralda. She did not know that he was trying to remember where he had seen her before.

She looked at him from under her long lashes with a curious and intense interest. This, then, was the Lord Trafford, the eldest son of the great Duke of Belfayre, who would some day himself be the great Duke of Belfayre. Yes, he was very handsome. Lord Norman had not exaggerated. And she understood, as she scanned him, with a woman’s comprehensive glance, what Norman had meant when he had said that his cousin was far and away above all other men. She felt, though she could not have explained why, that he was the most distinguished-looking man in the room, though there was no broad blue ribbon across his breast, and only a dark-looking stone—she did not know that it was a black pearl—in his shirt-front for jewelry. Suddenly he looked down at[80] her; so suddenly—and yet not abruptly—that she lowered her eyes quickly.

“You are sitting in a draught, Miss Chetwynde,” he said. “Come into this seat,” and he indicated one a little further into the conservatory.

Esmeralda obeyed.

“Was there a draught?” she said. “It didn’t matter. Lady Wyndover minds them, but it makes no difference to me; I never catch cold. I suppose it is because I am used to draughts.”

As she spoke, he looked at her intently, and seemed to listen eagerly, and with a slight frown, as if he were puzzled.

“You have only just come to England?” he said.

“Only a little while ago—about a week,” said Esmeralda.

“And you have been away, on the Continent?” he asked.

“No; I came straight from Australia,” she said. “I have never been anywhere else.”

His brows contracted, and he looked still more puzzled. A faint smile curved Esmeralda’s lips. She knew that he was trying to remember where he had seen her.

“Australia—I have never been there,” he said, musingly. “And do you like England—what you have seen of it, Miss Chetwynde?”

“For some things, yes; for others, no,” said Esmeralda. “But that is, perhaps, because I’m strange, and things are so different.”

“So different?” he echoed, invitingly. Something of the charm of her freshness attracted him, as it attracted all who came in contact with her. He looked at her more attentively, and began to realize how beautiful she was, and how girlish and unsophisticated. He did not read the society papers, and had heard nothing, knew nothing about her, beyond the knowledge which Lord Selvaine’s introductory words conveyed.

“Yes,” said Esmeralda. “People talk and behave differently to what I’ve been used to, and it is strange, at first; but I dare say I shall get used to it. Don’t you want to dance?” she broke off. “Everybody must want to dance who can; don’t let me keep you standing here.”

He did not smile at her candor as another man might have done.

“I don’t dance very often,” he said. “And I am glad to stand here, if you will allow me. Like you, I enjoy being a spectator.”

[81]

“Oh, but I don’t enjoy it,” said Esmeralda. “I’d dance if I could. I’m going to learn. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, gravely, but said nothing. It was said that Lord Trafford had, like Hawthorne, “flashes of eloquent silence.” This was one of them. A waltz was just over, and several couples passed them into the conservatory, into which there were two or three entrances. The buzz of chatter and laughter surrounded them; now and again some one could be heard distinctly. A voice, coming from a cluster of palms, just then reached them. It was a woman’s voice, and she was saying:

“Have you seen her, my dear? She is one of the most beautiful girls I ever saw. She is perfectly lovely! With the most wonderful hair and eyes.”

“A kind of ‘Belle Sauvage,’ I suppose?”

“No, indeed! She looks just like any one else,” rejoined the first lady. “She is perfectly dressed—of course Lady Wyndover would see to that—and she seems quite—quite quiet and well behaved. I haven’t spoken to her yet.”

“Ah,” said the second voice, “I expect if you had your enthusiasm would have evaporated. You would find that she dropped her h’s, or talked through her nose.”

The other lady laughed.

“I dare say; she comes from the wilds of Australia. But it does not matter; she will become the rage, however she talks, or whatever she does, mark my words. Over two millions of money! Think of it! Oh, we shall have her photographs in all the shop-windows presently! Lord Selvaine has approved of her, he has been sitting beside her, and promenading with her half the evening. Yes, before long we shall all be wearing the ‘Chetwynde’ hat, or the ‘Chetwynde’ cape. Two millions! Think of it, dear!”

Lord Trafford, who had heard every word, colored, and looked down at Esmeralda.

“Shall we go into the ball-room?” he said, quietly.

“No!” said Esmeralda. There was a dash of color in her cheek, and her glorious eyes flashed under their lashes. “Yes, they are talking about me. It is not very kind, is it? I can’t help being born in Australia; and”—with a sudden thrill in her voice—“I wouldn’t if I could! And I can’t help having all this money! Oh, I hate England, and—and all the English people!”

She rose with a sudden gesture which, it must be confessed, had something savage in it. The words, the tone, the[82] gesture, inexplicably recalled her to Trafford’s memory. He took her hand and drew it upon his arm.

“I know now!” he said in the tone of triumph and satisfaction we use when we have succeeded in remembering. “It was you who caught Lady Ada’s horse in the park yesterday.”

Esmeralda’s face grew hot, and she looked straight before her.

“You have been a long while remembering,” she said.

“Forgive me!” he pleaded. “Please, please forgive me! The difference in dress, the— How brave it was of you!”

“Oh!” she said, quietly, but with an upraising of her brows. “I thought it was very foolish! I’ve been told that it was—was unlady-like to interfere. Another time I shall stand quite still, and let happen what will.”

He looked at her.

“No, you will not!” he said. “You could not, Miss Chetwynde. I am glad I have met you to-night; I want to tell you how much I admired—appreciated—your courage, your presence of mind! Another woman, girl, would have screamed or run away.”

“I never scream; and I don’t run away,” said Esmeralda, as if she were stating a mere matter of fact.

“I can believe it!” he said. “I can believe anything of you that is brave and noble. And I beg you, on your part, to believe that we, in England, are not all like these silly, brainless chatterers.” He waved his hand toward the palms.

Esmeralda’s heart beat tumultuously. His voice, his manner—now so full of life and spirit—affected her strangely. She could not look at him, but gazed straight before her; and as she looked—through a mist, as it were—she saw a tall, graceful girl, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, coming toward them, on the arm of Lord Blankyre. It was the lady whom she had saved in the park.

Lord Trafford did not see her; he was intent upon Esmeralda’s face.

“Oh, here you are, Trafford,” said Lord Blank............