“You must,” she said, gently.  “If you’ll only let me have my way we’ll win.  But, Bob, dear, it’s going to be a bitter fight.”

Lorelei’s family spent most of the night in discussing their great good fortune.  Even Jim, worn out as he was by his part in the events connected with the marriage, sat until a late hour planning his sister’s future, and incidentally his own.  After he had gone to bed mother and father remained in a glow of exhilaration that made sleep impossible, and it was nearly dawn when they retired to dreams of hopes achieved and ambitions realized.

About nine-thirty on the following morning, just when the rival Wall Street forces were gathering, Hannibal Wharton called up the Knight establishment.

Mrs. Knight was impatient and at first refused to be disturbed, but when the servant at last made it plain that it was Hannibal C. Wharton, not his son Robert, calling, she leaped from her bed with the agility of an acrobat.

“Peter,” she cried, “it’s Mr. Wharton himself!”

Peter likewise awoke to a tremendous excitement.  “He probably wants to get acquainted,” exclaimed the invalid.  “Tell him to come right up.  I can see him any time.”

His wife was nervously pinning up her straggling hair, as if she feared the millions of the steel baron gave him the occult power to direct his vision along the wire.

“What shall I say to him?” she gasped.  “I suppose I’ll have to call on him and Mrs. Wharton, but I haven’t a thing to wear.”

“For God’s sake, don’t mention money,” implored Peter.  “Try to be pleasant for once in your life.  Better let me talk to him.”

But at this suggestion Mrs. Knight flared up angrily.  “You stay where you are!” she snapped.  “I know how to handle rich people.”

“Mathilda,” he shouted, as she hurried from the room, her slippers slapping loosely, a discolored wrapper clutched over her bony chest, “when he talks about Lorelei, cry for him.  She’s our only daughter and our only support, see?  We can’t bear to let her go.  If you’d only help me to the ’phone—­”

The retort that came back was shrewish, but the next instant Mathilda’s voice became as honey.

“How do you do, Mr. Wharton?” she was bubbling.  “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, but I couldn’t imagine ...  Yes, this is Lorelei’s mother.  I’m all upset over the marriage, and of course you are, too; but young people do the strangest things nowadays, don’t they?  We forgave them, of course—­one couldn’t be angry with Robert, he’s such a...What?”

Peter Knight let himself back into his bed with a feeble curse.  Women were such hysterical fools.  What man could swallow that sickly society tone?  Then he lifted himself again, round-eyed with apprehension.  In that attitude he remained frozen.

“Why, Mr. Wharton!” came echoing through the door.  “How can you say such a thing? ...  We knew nothing about it ...  We did not ...  She’s a good girl ...  I’ll have you understand you’re talking to her mother ...  He is not; Jim is a ...  Oh! ...  You talk like an old fool ...  I ...  You ...”