Lorelei groaned. "And I did so want to go straight back to my new
home." When she joined her employer after the show she was in no
very agreeable frame of mind.

Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire was a vermilion-haired widow with a chest
like a blacksmith, who had become famous for her jewels and her
social eccentricities. She and her party were established at one
of the up-town "Trottoires," when Nobel Bergman and Lorelei
arrived. Three examples of blushing boyhood devoted themselves to
a languid blonde girl of thirty-five, and the hostess herself was
dancing with another tender youth, but she came forward, panting.

"So good of you to come, dear," she cried. "This is Miss Wyeth,
and these are my boys, Mr.--" She spoke four meaningless names,
and four meaningless smiles responded; four wet-combed heads were
bowed. She turned to her blonde companion, saying, "She IS pretty,
isn't she, Alice?"

"Very," Alice agreed, without removing her eyes from the youth at
her left.

Bergman invited Lorelei to finish the dance; then he inquired,
"What do you think of her?"

"Her hair fascinates me; she looks as if she had just burst out of
a thicket of henna leaves." Bergman laughed, silently. "But why
did she invite me?"

"I told her to."