All she was conscious of
was her mother's sympathetic yet unerring eye; she felt sure that
at one glance that wonderful thought-reader had divined everything,
and seen through and through their interview that morning.
After lunch, the two men strolled upon the lawn to enjoy their
cigars, and Elma and her mother were left alone in the drawing-room.
For some minutes neither could make up her mind to break the ice
and speak. They sat shame-faced beside one another on the sofa,
like a pair of shy and frightened maidens. At last Mrs. Clifford
braced herself up to interrupt the awkward silence. "You've been
in Chetwood Forest, Elma," she murmured low, looking down and
averting her eyes carefully from her trembling daughter.
"Yes, mother," Elma answered, all aglow with conscious blushes.
"In Chetwood Forest."
"And you met him, dear?" The mother spoke tenderly and sympathetically.
Elma's heart stood still. "Yes, mother, I met him."
"And he had the snake there?"
Elma started in surprise. Why dwell upon that seemingly unimportant
detail? "Oh yes," she answered, still redder and hotter than ever.
"He had it there. He was painting it."
Mrs. Clifford paused a minute. Then she went on, with pain.
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