“Let him sleep,” said Irene, as she arose with a languid air. She walked to the mirror, and looking in, she started at the sight of her own face, which was as pale as marble, and her eyes sunken and surrounded by great dark circles. Her hair twisted in an unbecoming knot at the back of her head seemed to add ten years to her life.
“Bring my false hair, Mary,” she said, “and see if you cannot make me look a little more respectable. I am a fright.”
“Oh, I shall have to lie down again. I am growing faint,” said Irene, as Mary started to arrange her hair.
“Mercy,” said Mary, as she helped her to the couch, “you look like a dead woman; you had better let me bring your coffee and toast in for you.”
Irene made no objection, and after Mary had bathed her face with camphor she brought her a tempting light breakfast, of which Irene forced herself to eat that she might have strength to arise, but for a number of days she was confined to her bed. Her cough, which was growing worse each day, had worn her to a mere shadow of her former self, and strive as she would to 241 appear cheerful, she could not hide the truth which was each day growing more and more apparent.
“I wish you would stay with me to-night, Max,” she said, one evening, as she lay upon the couch, “I want to tell you something.”
“I couldn’t think of it, my dear. I’ve got an engagement; but if it is anything of importance you may as well tell me all about it before I go.”
“You are very independent lately, but it may bring you down a little to have me tell you that father has been here, and says we’ve got to move. He has lost this house through his gambling, and we must go back to San Bernardino.”
“The devil!” said Max, with a frown.
“Yes, and there’s no telling what the next turn will be. He is losing money all the time. I should think it was about time you came in possession of your wealth.”