She did not deceive herself, however, and a brief experience convinced her that to be merely a wife to one of Bob’s vagrant disposition was not enough; that in order to keep his new self alive she must also be his sweetheart, his chum, and his partner.  If she failed in any one of these roles disaster was bound to follow.  But to succeed in them all, when there was no love to strengthen her, was by no means easy.  Always she felt a great emptiness, and a disappointment that her life had been so crookedly fashioned:  sometimes she even felt degraded, and wondered if she were doing right, after all.  Reason argued that to live with a man she did not love was immoral, and the mere fact that she and Bob were legally married gave her no comfort whatever.  There had been nothing sacred in their union; she supposed that the courts would dissolve it if the truth became known.

More than once Lorelei had spurned offers far more profitable and no less holy than that existing between her and Bob, and it seemed to her now that the difference between mistress and wife must lie in something besides the mutterings of a sleepy Hoboken court officer.  Just where the line of demarcation lay, however, or upon which side of that line she stood, she could not determine.

In the course of a fortnight Bob began to grow restless.  One evening when he came for her she saw that he was nervous; a strained, tired look had crept into his eyes, and she thought she understood.  Nevertheless his spirits were ebullient.  When they reached home he ushered her into the apartment with a flourish, and Lorelei was amazed to find their table set with strange linen, silver, and china and the dining-room decorated as if for a party.

“Who’s coming?  What on earth?” she exclaimed.

“A little surprise.  A supper for just you and me, my dear.”

Two strangers, evidently caterer’s men, were completing the final preparations for an extravagant banquet.  Noting a collection of wine-glasses at each place, Lorelei glanced at Bob reproachfully, but he only laughed, saying: 

“Take heart.  The liquid diet is all a bluff.  Kindly note the centerpiece.”

She saw that the center of the table was occupied by a highly decorated silver wine-cooler—­empty.

“There it sits,” Bob exclaimed, “the little Temple of Bacchus—­ overgrown with roses.  It used to be my shrine and my confessional until I saw the light.  Now that I’ve escaped from the bondage of sin, sickness, and error, I’m giving a triumphal feast upon the altar steps.”

It was one of his whims.  During the meal he made elaborate speeches in the names of his friends.  His imaginary guests congratulated him; in empty glasses they toasted the bride, they extolled her beauty, they praised his own gallantry, and vaunted his conquest of the demon rum.  As the supper progressed Bob simulated a growing intoxication, while the hired servants looked on as if at the antics of a lunatic.  He made it amusing, and Lorelei entered into the spirit of the make-believe.  But when they were alone and all traces of the feast had disappeared he swooped down out of the clouds and confessed miserably: