“Mr. Somerville is in the drawing-room,” said the servant. “He wishes to see you.”
Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.
“I will go down,” she said. “Ida, you will remain here.”
She descended to the drawing-room, and met the man who had injured her. He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon a single cast. His fortunes were desperate. Through the mother's love for the daughter whom she had mourned so long, whom, as he believed he had it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to a marriage, which would retrieve his fortunes, and gratify his ambition.
Mrs. Clifton seated herself quietly. She did not, as usual, offer him her hand. Full of his own plans, he did not notice this omission.
“How long is it since Ida was lost?” inquired Somerville.
Mrs. Clifton started in some surprise. She had not expected him to introduce this subject.
“Eight years,” she said.
“And you believe she yet lives?”
“Yes, I am certain of it.”