“Who is he, Patrick?”
“He came to answer the ad for master’s companion, madam.”
“Come, Annette, let us follow, and see if he will suit Royall,” cried the volatile little widow, snatching Annette’s hand and dragging her along.
“Mrs. Fleming, Miss Janowitz, Mr. Raymond,” said Daisie, and they all bowed formally, the gentleman standing at the back of Royall’s chair, superb in manly dignity.
“Stunning!” whispered the widow to Annette. But the young girl had grown suddenly very pale and still. She waited silently, her bosom heaving under its pearls, her eyes downcast beneath their jetty fringes, until Mrs. Fleming tittered:
“Well, we must be going, girls. Ta, ta, Royall; so glad you like my new Paris gown. You must try to exist without Daisie a few hours, will you?”
He threw her a bitter smile, and Daisie waited to clasp his cold hand and kiss his brow, heedless of the stranger’s presence, ere she followed the others from the room.
Royall looked up at him, saying wildly:
“Is it not enough to make a man curse God to be the husband of so rare a creature, yet a helpless cripple from his bridal hour?”
He saw the pale face of the stranger working with sympathy as he said hoarsely: