"
Mrs. Clifford coloured through her olive-brown skin, exactly like
Elma, and rose with a somewhat embarrassed and half-guilty air,
avoiding her husband's eyes as if afraid to meet them.
Elma had gone to bed early, wearied out as she was with her long
agony in the tunnel. Mrs. Clifford crept up to her daughter's room
with a silent tread, like some noiseless Oriental, and, putting her
ear to the keyhole, listened outside the door in profound suspense
for several minutes.
Not a sound from within; not a gentle footfall on the carpeted floor.
For a moment she hesitated; then she turned the handle slowly, and,
peering before her, peeped into the room. Thank Heaven! no snake
signs. Elma lay asleep, with one arm above her head, as peacefully
as a child, after her terrible adventure. Her bosom heaved, but
slowly and regularly. The mother drew a deep breath, and crept down
the stairs with a palpitating heart to the drawing-room again.
"Reginald," she said, with perfect confidence, relapsing once more
at a bound into the ordinary every-day British matron, "there's no
harm done, I'm sure. She doesn't think of this young man at all.
You may dismiss him from your mind at once and for ever.
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