"Do I weary you, poor dear?" sinking gracefully into an arm-chair. "Oh, how dreadfully ill you look; I suppose you will be in bed for weeks."
"I am going to sit up to-morrow."
"Surely not so soon, dear. I don't think mama will permit you."
"I beg your pardon, I shall not ask her leave, Lizette is my nurse"—quietly.
"But I thought mama ought to be consulted. She is your chaperon, you know"—wheedingly.
"I am very wilful, Miss Courtney, and intend to have my own way. I am better, and there is no need of my remaining in bed longer than to-morrow. Then, too, I have a guest, you should remember, and courtesy demands that I should greet him as soon as possible."
"Although a perfect stranger to you. But, perhaps, mama will not consider it correct form for you to visit the invalid," almost sneered Azalea.
"You have called on him, I presume"—pointedly.
"Why, of course"—flushing slightly—"but that is very different. I have known Dorian a long time."
"Ah, and I saved his life," replied Nita quietly.