wickedness had set the town agog, and her first impression was
vaguely disappointing. Miss Demorest's beauty was by no means
remarkable, although it was accentuated by the most bizarre
creation of the French shops. She was animated, audacious, Gallic
in accent and postures--she was vividly alive with a magnetism
that meant much more than beauty; but she over-exerted her voice,
and her song was nothing to excite applause. At last she was off,
in a whirl of skirts, a generous display of hosiery, and a great
bobbing of the aigrette pompon that towered above her like an
Indian head-dress. Only a moment later she was on again, this time
in a daring costume of solid black, against and through which her
limbs flashed with startling effect as she performed her famous
Danse de Nuit.

"Hm-m! Nothing very extreme about that," remarked Merkle, at
length. "It would be beautiful if it were better done."

Lorelei agreed. She had been staring with all a woman's intentness
at this sister whose strength consisted of her frailty, and now
inquired:

"How does she get away with it?"

"By the power of suggestion, I dare say. Her public is looking for
something devilish, and discovers whatever it chooses to imagine
in what she says and does."

Hannibal Wharton had changed his seat, and, regardless of the
dancer, began a conversation with Merkle. After a time Lorelei
heard him say: