Trafford went straight from Eaton Square to his club. He had had the worst quarter of an hour in his life, and felt extremely unhappy, and as if he were a brute and a monster of the cruelest type. And yet he knew that he had done the right thing, and he tried to console himself with the reflection that he had behaved as became a gentleman and a man of honor; but Ada Lancing’s face, lined with agony, and her voice broken and wailing, haunted him.

He went into the smoking-room of the Marlborough and lighted a cigar—that solatium of the angry, the wounded, the wearied, and the sore oppressed. He had not been there five minutes before a young friend entered and hailed him with sprightly welcome. He was a wild young Irish viscount, Lord Dunworthy, who was rapidly running through a fortune which he had recently inherited, and enjoying life as only a young Irishman can. He was the gossip of the club, and Trafford usually liked to listen to his light-hearted chatter; but he could have dispensed with it this afternoon.

“Halloo, Trafford!” said the young fellow. “I’m in luck! Who’d have thought of seeing you here at this time of day! Have a whisky and soda? I’m going to!”

Trafford declined the proffered drink, and Lord Dunworthy swiftly consumed his, and sat himself down beside Trafford for a talk. He retailed the gossip of the day, but suddenly broke off to exclaim:

“I say, Trafford, were you at the Blankyres’ the other night?”

Trafford nodded.

“I didn’t go; I wish I had, for I should have seen the heiress they are all talking about. She was at the Fletchers’ last night, but I got there too late, and she’d gone before I arrived. Is she as beautiful as they say she is?”

“Do you mean Miss Chetwynde?” asked Trafford, gravely.

“Of course! Nobody’s talking of any one else. They tell me that she created a tremendous sensation at the Blankyres’; and last night, at the Fletchers’, there was such a mob round her that you couldn’t get near her. And did you see ‘Society Chatter’ this morning?”

Trafford said that he never read the paper.

“Ah! not much in your line! Well, there’s nearly a page[102] about her. It gives a full account of how she was found out in Australia, and an exhaustive description of her dresses. They say she’s worth two millions, and that she’s one of the most charming girls that ever came to London. She’s going to be the rage this season, you mark my words. Is it true that she drops her h’s, and otherwise murders the Queen’s English?”

“It is not true,” said Trafford, rather grimly, and angry with himself for feeling angry.

“No? Not that it matters. I suppose it’s all right about the coin?”

“I don’t know; I believe so!” said Trafford. “I know nothing of Miss Chetwynde; and I only talked with her for a few minutes. I didn’t ask her if she possessed two millions.”

The young fellow looked at him with some little surprise; Trafford was not usually short-tempered or irritable.

“All right, old chap; didn’t mean anything offensive; didn’t know she was a friend of yours.”

“I can lay no claim to Miss Chetwynde’s friendship,” said Trafford, trying to smile.

“That’s all right. I shall see her myself to-night; she is going to the Villiers’, and you bet I sha’n’t be late this time. They say that Lady Wyndover is in the seventh heaven of delight at having such a ward, and that no one less than a prince of the blood will be good enough for her. Shall you go to-night?”

“I don’t know,” said Trafford.

“Do!” said the young fellow. “There’ll be a fearful crush, for Miss Chetwynde will be a great attraction; but I dare say we can fight our way in.”

Trafford was soon left alone again, for the gay young Irishman did not find him too cheerful a companion, and Trafford finished his cigar in a mood even more irritable than that in which he had commenced it.

It seemed to him as if this girl were going to dominate his life, as if he were to be haunted by her name and her money wherever he went and whomsoever he met. He dined at the club, and the two or three men who sat at the same table with him talked of little else but Miss Chetwynde. One of them, with the audacity of youth, called her the Golden Savage; and Trafford sat almost silent, and chafing inwardly, though outwardly as calm and serene as usual. He went home to his chambers half resolved not to go to the Villiers’, but by ten o’clock the faint resolution had melted, and he put on his overcoat, and sauntered down to Lord Villiers’ official residence,[103] in Carlton Terrace, in a frame of mind more easily imagined than described.

About the same time, Lady Wyndover and Esmeralda were starting for the same destination. Her ladyship was, if not in a seventh heaven of delight, in the fifth or sixth. Esmeralda’s success had been greater, more emphatic than even Lady Wyndover had anticipated, and she was basking in something of the glory which shone around her ward. As the guardian of one of the most beautiful, and the richest, and, what is more important still, the most successful of the débutantes, Lady Wyndover had suddenly risen from a position of comparative insignificance to one of great social value. There would now be no difficulty in filling her dinner-parties; there would be plenty of invitations to the best houses; plenty of partners, plenty of adulation and eager civility.

She was all in a little flutter of excitement, and the blood mantled in her powdered cheek, making the artistically applied rouge almost unnecessary, as she watched Esmeralda going through the last stages of her toilet under Barker’s experienced hands.

Every hour of the day her study of the girl grew more intense in its interest. She had never seen any girl like her, and Esmeralda’s manner and conduct completely upset all her preconceived theories. She had expected the girl to be confused, bewildered, overwhelmed by the novelty of her position. She had expected her to be painfully shy at times, and over-bold at others; but Esmeralda, though she had been suddenly plunged from the wilds of Australia into the whirlpool of society, seemed neither bewildered nor overwhelmed. She was not even shy; and, judging by her calmness, was not even dazzled by the sudden brilliance into which she had been thrust. And, strange to say, Lady Wyndover had actually overheard a certain illustrious personage, whose name may not be mentioned, describe Miss Chetwynde as “good form.”

Since the Blankyres’ party, Esmeralda had been receiving dancing lessons from a famous professor; and the famous professor had declared, with something like enthusiasm, that he had never had a more apt pupil. Although the lessons had been so few, Esmeralda, by dint of many hours’ practice, had acquired sufficient knowledge of the Lancers and the simple waltz to be able to accept a partner without any very serious misgivings.

She had also learned other things; but there was one thing that Lady Wyndover could not teach her—she would not discriminate[104] between nobodies and somebodies; she was frank and pleasant with one and all, and smiled upon the veriest detrimental—especially if he were good-looking and agreeable—as freely as she did upon the most noble of the innumerable persons who were introduced to her. Esmeralda was, at any rate as yet, no respecter of persons. But Lady Wyndover hoped that this would come in time.

Esmeralda, on this evening, wore the second of her ball-dresses, and as Lady Wyndover declared, Madame Cerise’s taste had never been employed to better advantage. The dress was still too low to altogether please Esmeralda, but as she knew by her two nights’ experience that there were many still lower, she submitted. Their arrival at Lady Villiers’ created quite a little sensation. The well-dressed mob in a London ball-room does not shout or wave its handkerchief, but it can stare and whisper together; and in this, and in several other ways, it displayed its curiosity and interest. Esmeralda was very soon surrounded, and her card would have been filled up to the last item, but she reserved several spaces, notwithstanding the ardent protests which assailed her.

It was a much more brilliant ball than Lady Blankyre’s, and was semi-political in its character, for Lord Villiers was in the Cabinet, and there were members of both Houses present, with their belongings. As Esmeralda whirled round the room with a tall guardsman, she was almost inclined to believe that the whole thing was a dream; or that Three Star camp was a dream, and this the reality into which she had awakened. She had just got through the Lancers very creditably, and with that coolness which is born from perfect self-consciousness, when Lord Trafford entered. She noticed that he looked pale and tired, and as if he were anything but glad to be there; and she wondered why he had come. He stood for some time talking to Lord Villiers, and with his eyes bent on the floor, but suddenly he raised them, and caught her direct, speculative gaze. He bowed, and Esmeralda returned the greeting with her frank smile.

Her face was a little flushed with the dance, her eyes were glowing with a young girl’s delight in the rhythmical movement, the soft music, the brilliant scene. He could not deny her beauty, but he sighed as he thought of Ada Lancing, with her strained face and pain-stricken eyes. He did not go up to Esmeralda at once, and it was nearly an hour later when she found him by her side.

“You have been dancing, Miss Chetwynde, I see,” he said. “Have you a dance to give me, or am I too late?”

[105]

He held out his hand for her card, and after a moment’s hesitation she gave it to him.

“I am not engaged for all,” she said; “but I ought to tell you that I don’t dance very well. I’ve been practicing for hours at a time since I saw you last, but I’m very uncertain still; sometimes I lose the step, if my partner goes too fast, and then there’s trouble. I think you’d better ask some other lady to dance; you’ll enjoy it more; besides,” she added, na?vely, “you look tired, and as if you’d rather rest.” Her simplicity and appalling candor made him smile.

“What are you laughing at?” she asked............