shuffling of chairs, some mumbled questions and answers, the
crackle of papers, a deal of unintelligible rigamarole, then a
man's heavy seal-ring was slipped upon Lorelei's finger, and she
knew herself to be Mrs. Robert Wharton. It was all confused,
unimpressive, unreal. She was never able fully to recall the
picture of that room or the events that occurred there. They
formed but a part of the kaleidoscopic jumble of the night's
occurrences.

The wedding party was in the cab once more, and it was under way.
Lilas was singing maudlinly, lying back in Jim's arms with her
feet projecting through a window; the groom was laughing foolishly
and pawing at his bride. The street lights reeled by in drunken
procession. Now that his work was done, Jim flung aside his
caution and, popping the cork of a wine-bottle, drank deeply, in
disregard of Lilas's attempts to share the contents. He was
fiercely elated; he imbibed with the eager thirst of a
dipsomaniac. It was all so like a nightmare that Lorelei began to
doubt her own sanity.

Once at rest in the dim-lit tunnel of the ferry-boat, however, she
was brought sharply to herself by hearing her brother exclaim:
"Say! He hasn't kissed her yet."

Lilas shrieked, and Bob stiffened himself, then slipped an arm
around his bride. As she shrank away he mumbled angrily: "Here! I
won't stand for that," and crushed her to him. He tipped her head
back, then pressed his lips to hers, and she yielded, her whole
body a-quiver with repugnance. But it was part of the price, she
told herself; therefore she paid, although she was like to faint