“You knew how to talk to him that night of the supper.”

“And to think you married him after what hap—­I’m going to slap the very first millionaire I meet—­maybe he’ll propose to me.”  She was suddenly dismayed.  “Why, I can’t afford to buy you a wedding-gift—­you’ll expect a diamond sunburst or a set of sea-otter.  I didn’t dress for dinner either; I suppose I should have worn the crown jools.”

“You’re going to wear an apron and help me scorch the dinner,” Lorelei laughed.

“You—­cooking, with a billionaire husband!” Adoree gasped.  “Am I dreaming?  Why don’t you dine aboard his yacht, or—­buy the Plaza and have dinner served in the lobby?  You cooking!  Why, you’re going to have automobiles to match your dresses, and chateaux in France, and servants, and stables of polo-ponies, and a Long Island estate, and a hunting-lodge, and—­and thousands of gowns, and a maid to put ’em on.  She’ll do it, too—­when you’re not looking.”  Miss Demorest paused, dazzled by the splendor of her own imaginings.  “You!  Cooking!  Stop fidgeting and let me kiss you.  There!”

As Lorelei explained the reasons for to-night’s program, Adoree saw for the first time the weariness in her friend’s eyes, the pallor of her cheeks, the tremulous droop of her lower lip.  Seizing Lorelei by the shoulders, she held her off as the target for a searching gaze.

“Tell me, did they make you marry him?” she inquired, fiercely.  It was plain to whom she referred.

“No.”

“Whew!  I’m glad to hear that.  You love him, don’t you?”

The answer came readily enough, and the blue eyes did not flinch, but the smile was a trifle fixed and the cheeks remained colorless.

“Why, of course.  He’s very nice.”

“Lorelei!” Miss Demorest’s fingers tightened; her voice was tragic, but she had no chance to say more, for Bob called just then from the living-room: 

“Hurry back, girls.  There’s something burning, and I can’t find the emergency brake.”

When Adoree finally came forth in one of Lorelei’s aprons—­really a fetching garment, more like a house dress than an apron—­Bob told her whom they were expecting as the other guest.

She paused with a bread-knife upraised.

“That—­viper?” she cried.

“Campbell isn’t a viper; he’s a cricket—­a dramatic cricket,” declared Bob.

Adoree began to undo the buttons at her back, but Bob seized her hands.

“Let go.  I’ll blow up if I see that creature,” she exclaimed, in a kind of subdued shout.

Argument proved vain until Lorelei told her firmly:  “You owe it to yourself, dear.  And we won’t let you go.”

The dancer ceased her struggles, her brows puckered.  “Perhaps I do owe it to myself, as you say.  Anyhow, I haven’t taken a human life yet, and this is my chance.”

“Don’t kill him, just stay and spoil his dinner,” Lorelei urged.