CHAPTER IV


Lorelei turned from--the man on her left, who had regaled her with
an endless story, the point of which had sent the teller into
hiccoughs of laughter, and said to John Merkle:

"I'm glad I'm with you to-night. I don't like drinking men."

"Can a girl in your position afford preferences?" he inquired,
tartly. Thus far the banker had fully lived up to his sour
reputation.

"All women are extravagant. I have preferences, even if I CAN'T
afford them. If you were a tippler instead of a plain grouch I
could tell you precisely how you'd act and what you'd talk about
as the evening goes on. First you'd be gallant and attentive; then
you'd forget me and talk business with Mr. Wharton--he's nearest
you. About that time I'd begin to learn the real names of these
lords of finance. After that you'd become interested in my future.
That's always the worst period. Once I'd made you realize that you
meant nothing in my life and that my future was provided for,
you'd tell me stories about your family--how your wife is an
invalid, how Tom is at Yale, how Susie is coming out in the
autumn, and how you really had no idea ladies were to be present
tonight or you'd never have risked coming. Finally you'd confess
that you were naturally impulsive, generous, and affectionate, and
merely lacked the encouragement of a kindred spirit like me to
become a terrible cut-up. Then you'd insist upon dancing. I'd die
if I had to teach you the tango."