Pope nodded.  “I am, and I’m ashamed of my entire sex when I hear of them flocking to the Palace Garden just to see a woman who has nothing to distinguish her but a reputation for vileness.”

“Did you see the crown jewels—­the King’s Cabachon rubies?” Lorelei asked.

“Only from the front.  I dare say they’re as counterfeit as she is.”

Miss Lynn turned, revealing a countenance as shiny as that of an Eskimo belle.  With her war-paint only half applied and her hair secured closely to her small head, she did not in the least resemble the dashing “Countess” of the program.

“Oh, they’re real enough.  I got that straight.”

Campbell Pope scoffed.

“Isn’t it true about the King of Seldovia?  Didn’t she wreck his throne?” eagerly queried Mrs. Knight.

“I never met the King, and I haven’t examined his throne.  But, you know, kings can do no wrong, and thrones are easily mended.”

But Mrs. Knight was insistent; her eyes glittered, her sharp nose was thrust forward inquisitively.  “They say she draws two thousand a week, and won’t go to supper with a man for less than five hundred dollars.  She says if fellows want to be seen in public with her they’ll have to pay for it, and she’s right.  Of course, she’s terribly bad, but you must admit she’s done mighty well for herself.”

“We’ll have a chance to see her to-night,” announced Lilas.  “Mr. Hammon is giving a big supper to some of his friends and we’re going—­Lorelei and I. Demorest is down for her ‘Danse de Nuit.’  They say it’s the limit.”

“Hammon, the steel man?” queried the critic, curiously.

“Sure.  There’s only one Hammon.  But nix on the newspaper story; this is a private affair.”

“Never let us speak ill of a poor Pittsburgh millionaire,” laughed Pope.  “Scandal must never darken the soot of that village.”  He turned as Slosson, the press-agent of the show, entered with a bundle of photographs.

“Here are the new pictures of Lorelei for your story, old man,” Mr. Slosson said.  “Bergman will appreciate the boost for one of his girls.  Help yourself to those you want.  If you need any more stuff I’ll supply it.  Blushing country lass just out of the alfalfa belt—­first appearance on any stage—­instantaneous hit, and a record for pulchritude in an aggregation where the homeliest member is a Helen of Troy.  Every appearance a riot; stage-door Johns standing on their heads; members of our best families dying to lead her to the altar; under five-year contract with Bergman, and refuses to marry until the time’s up.  Delancey Page, the artist, wants to paint her, and says she’s the perfect American type at last.  Say, Bergman can certainly pick ’em, can’t he?  I’ll frame it for a special cop at the back door, detailed to hold off the matrimony squad of society youths, if you can use it.”

“Don’t go to the trouble,” Pope hastily deprecated.  “I know the story.  Now I’m going to leave and let Miss Lynn dress.”