said a languid voice from the
sofa.

"Madame, my card--"

"Oh, was that a card? Pray excuse me.--Lucille, my glasses." Then, as a
French maid brought the little, gold-rimmed toy, the person scanned the
name. "Ma'm'selle Dag?" she said inquiringly.

"Daarg, madame," replied Miss Elisabetha. "If you have resided in New
York at all, you are probably familiar with the name"; and majestically
she smoothed down the folds of the salmon-colored scarf.

"I have resided in New York, and I am not familiar with the name," said
the person, throwing her head back indolently among the cushions.

She wore a long, full robe of sea-green silk, opening over a mist of
lace-trimmed skirts, beneath whose filmy borders peeped little feet
incased in green-silk slippers, with heels of grotesque height; a cord
and tassels confined the robe to her round waist; the hanging sleeves,
open to the shoulders, revealed superb white arms; and the mass of
golden hair was gathered loosely up behind, with a mere _soupcon_ of a
cap perched on top, a knot of green ribbon contrasting with the low-down
golden ripples over the forehead. Miss Elisabetha surveyed the attitude
and the attire with disfavor; in her young days no lady in health wore a
wrapper, or lolled on sofas. But the person, who was the pet prima donna
of the day, English, with a world-wide experience and glory, knew
nothing of such traditions.

"I have called, madame," began the visitor, ignoring the slight with
calm dignity (after all, how should "a person" know anything of the name
of Daarg?), "on account of my--my ward, Theodore Oesterand."

"Never heard of him," replied the diva. It was her hour for _siesta_,
and any infringement of her rules told upon the carefully tended,
luxuriant beauty.

"I beg your pardon," said Miss Elisabetha, with increased accentuation
of her vowels. "Theodore has had the honor of seeing you twice, and he
has also sung for you."

"What! you mean my little bird of the tropics, my Southern nightingale!"
exclaimed the singer, raising herself from the cushions.--"Lucille, why
have you not placed a chair for this lady?--I assure you, I take the
greatest interest in the boy, Miss Dag."

"Daarg," replied Miss Elisabetha; and then, with dignity, she took the
chair, and, seating herself, crossed one slipper over the other, in the
attitude number one of her youth. Number one had signified "repose," but
little repose felt she now; there was something in the attire