"Mr. Farnham will be furiously angry with me for letting it happen, and I have no doubt that as soon as he reads it in the papers he will come down here to turn me out of the house," Mrs. Courtney complained bitterly, for this luxurious home was a palace compared to the humble lodgings in the city where she would be forced to return when she lost her well-paid position as chaperon to Miser Farnham's heiress.
"But, mama, you must, of course, insist upon receiving the whole year's salary," cried Azalea.
"Of course," replied her mother, and took up the morning paper, adjusted her glasses, and began to read.
"Is there anything about the duel?" eagerly inquired Azalea, from the couch, where she was enacting the part of a semi-invalid.
"No, nothing yet. Too soon, you know, Azalea; but, of course, all the evening papers will have it. Oh, good gracious, what is this! Accident yesterday afternoon on the elevated railroad, and several people killed and wounded. Azalea, listen to this:
"'Charles Farnham, very well known as a peculiar character of New York, called the miser, was seriously wounded, and at first reported killed, but revived a little, and was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where he now lies in a semi-unconscious condition.'"
A weak, languid voice asked the question, while a dark, graceful head raised itself wearily from the pillow, and dark, solemn eyes, shining out of a waxen-white face, stared wonderingly over at a trim figure knitting lace at an open window. The figure gave a start, dropped the needles and some stitches together, gave a bound across the room and knelt down by the couch.
"Oh, you little darling--you little darling, you are better, you know me," cooed Lizette, lovingly patting the pale, delicate cheek.
"Lizette, of course I know you," her mistress answered with wondering impatience. "But where am I?"
"In your own room, of course, Miss Nita," answered the maid, with a certain air of evasiveness.
"In my own room? Why, it all looks very strange to me! Oh, Lizette, was it all a dream? The yacht--Dorian?" cried the girl eagerly, a warm, pink flush creeping over the pallor of her waxen cheek.
"Dearie, you have been ill and your dreams were wild," soothed Lizette. "But you must not talk now. Wait till you take some food."