"Lance?" asked the Serpent.
"Yes, why don't you speak to Lance now and then?"
"I pay him a higher compliment," said the queer little Serpent. "I wore his clothes last night."
"Oh," said Elma. "Oh! yet you could faint to-day--or nearly so."
"Isn't it wicked," said the Serpent. "A boy wouldn't have given in. They do much worse, and don't give way at the knees, you know. I only opened the window and threw in the note. It was nothing. I meant you just to be puzzled. I was there early and couldn't find a suitable window or a door, so I waited till the maids went to bed. They left a little window half open."
"Mamma ought to dismiss cook," said Elma primly.
It was a streak of the sunlight of confidence which did not illuminate the Serpent again for many days to come. Elma, however, at the time, and until she once more met the scornful glare of reserve habitual to that person, felt as though she had found a friend. They said good-bye in fairly jocular spirits, and Elma rushed home to give at least her "all-to-be-depended-upon" mother the news.
When she entered the drawing-room, however, Jean was describing the burglary to a company of people. Little shrieks and "Ohs" and "Oh, however did you do it?" "I should have died, really I should," were to be heard.
Jean's burglar was six feet two by this time and he had an "accomplice."
Elma thought she would choose another occasion on which to give her news to Mrs. Leighton.