For Elma felt sure she was mad that night. And, if so, oh, how could
she poison Cyril Waring's life with so unspeakable an inheritance
for himself and his children?
She didn't know, what any psychologist might at once have told
her, that no one with the fatal taint of madness in her blood could
ever even have thought of that righteous self-denial. Such scruples
have no place in the selfish insane temperament; they belong only
to the highest and purest types of moral nature.
One morning, however, a few weeks later, Elma had strolled off
by herself into Chetwood Forest, without any intention of going
anywhere in particular, save for a solitary walk, when suddenly,
a turn round the corner of a devious path brought her face to face
all at once with a piece of white canvas, stretched opposite her
on an easel; at the other side of which, to her profound dismay,
an artist in a grey tweed suit was busily working.
The artist, as it happened, didn't see her at once, for the canvas
stretched between them, shutting her out from his eyes, and Elma's
light footstep on the mossy ground hadn't aroused his attention.
So the girl's first impulse was to retrace her way unobtrusively
without exchanging a word, and retire round the corner again, before
Cyril could recognise her.
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