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Updated: May 7, 2025
He had even got so far in the course of their intimacy as to take out the portfolio, which lay hidden under the seat out of deference to his disguise as a stock-broker, no doubt and to display before Elma's delighted eyes, with many explanatory comments as to light and shade, or perspective and foreshortening, the studies for the picture he had just then engaged upon.
Elma's torn shoe gave her considerable trouble, and noticing her limping, I induced her to sit down while I took it off, hoping to be able to mend it, but, having unlaced it, I saw that upon her stocking was a large patch of congealed blood, where her foot itself had also been cut.
"My father suspected Woodroffe of being the assassin in Rannoch Wood, for he knew that he had broken away from the original compact, and had now allied himself with Oberg. Yet it was also my father's object to appear in fear of them, because he was only awaiting an opportunity to lay plans for poor Elma's rescue from Finland.
And this, I suppose, must be Miss Clifford that I've heard so much about." As he said those words, a little gleam of pleasure shot through Elma's eyes. Her painter hadn't forgotten her, then. He had talked much about her.
"Miss Helma, will you come outside on the landing for a minute?" Elma went out. "I have a bit of news about that money, miss. If you'll come right down to the dining-room I'll tell you there." "News about my money, Maggie? Oh, impossible!" But hope, ever ready to dawn in the human breast, could not help rising now on poor Elma's horizon.
Cornelia's golden eyes travelled up and down, down and up, in earnest, scrutinising fashion. She met Elma's glance with a shake of the head, forbearing, yet reproachful. "Say! You don't know how to prink, do you?" "Prink?" Elma was doubtful even as to the meaning of the word. She arched her brows in inquiry, whereat Cornelia laughed aloud. "You are real, genuine English!
Never mind how it happened; it has happened, and that's good enough. ... How's Mrs Ramsden bearing up?" Elma's face fell. For a person who had just proclaimed herself completely happy, she looked astonishingly worried and perturbed. "Oh, my dear, such a scene! I took Geoffrey in to see her, and she couldn't have been more horrified if he had been the most desperate character in the world.
There, Elma, pour me out another cup of tea, and I will tell you everything." Elma raised the teapot, she filled her aunt's cup with fresh tea, added a little milk, and brought it to her side. "Thank you, my dear. Now, Elma, you may consider yourself a made girl." "Made?" echoed Elma, turning her white face to Mrs. Steward. "Yes, made. What would you say to going abroad?" Elma's eyes brightened.
Don't you ever have any nice young men to take you round?" Elma's dissent was tinged with shocked surprise, for she had been educated in the theory that it was unmaidenly to think about the opposite sex.
Elma's skin was dark a clear and creamy olive-brown complexion, such as one sometimes sees in southern Europe, though rarely in England; and the effect of the blush through it didn't pass unnoticed by Cyril Waring's artistic eye. He would have given something for the chance of transferring that delicious effect to canvas.
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