When Bob came in he betrayed an elation only too familiar.

“You’ve been drinking!” cried Lorelei.

“I had to; I ran fifteen three times.  My abstinence is the marvel of the whole party.  Why, Clayton has composed a song about it.”

“I’m afraid—­”

“Say!  You can’t help sneezing when you have a cold.  What’s a fellow going to do in a crowd like this?  But don’t worry, I know when to quit.”

In truth he did seem better able to take care of himself than most of the men Lorelei had seen, so she said no more.

As he throttled himself with his evening tie Bob gasped:  “Having a good time?”

“Ye-es!” Lorelei could not summon courage for a negative answer; she could not confess that her dream had turned out wretchedly, and that what Bob seemed to consider simply the usual thing impressed her as abnormal and wanton.

“Well, that’s good,” he said.  “I’m not strong for these week-end slaughters, but it’s something you’ll have to do.”

“Is all society like—­this?” she inquired.

“Um-m, yes and no!  Society is like a layer-cake—­”

“Because it’s made of dough?”

Bob laughed.  “Partly!  Anyhow, the upper crust is icy, and while the lower layer is just as rich as those above, it’s more indigestible.  There’s the heavy, soggy layers in between, too.  I don’t know any of that crowd.  They’re mostly Dodos—­the kind that endow colleges.  This younger set keeps the whole cake from getting tasteless.”

After a while Lorelei ventured:  “I’m still a little nervous.  I wish you’d stay close to me this evening.”

“Can’t be done,” Bob declared.  “It’s a rule at Fennellcourt that husbands must ignore their wives.  Betty doesn’t invite many married couples, and a wife-lover is considered a pest.  When in Rome do as the tourists do.”

Lorelei finished dressing in silence.

Dinner was quite different to anything Bob’s wife had ever experienced, and if the afternoon had been embarrassing to her the evening was a trial.  As the cocktails were served, Harden Fennell distinguished himself by losing his balance and falling backward, to the great amusement of his guests.  No one went to his assistance; he regained his feet by climbing a high-backed chair, hand over hand, and during the dinner he sat for the most part in a comatose state, his eyes bleared and staring, his tongue unresponsive.  Lorelei had little opportunity of watching him, since Bert Hayman monopolized her attention.  The latter made love openly, violently now, and it added to her general disgust to see that Bob had again fallen into the clutches of Miss Wyeth, who made no secret of her fondness for him.

Lorelei was not the only one to take special note of the blonde girl’s infatuation.  Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire was equally observant and at length made her disapproval patent by a remark that set the table laughing and drove the blood from Lorelei’s face.  As if further to vent her resentment at Bob, the widow turned spitefully upon his wife.  Seeing Lorelei wince, Hayman murmured consolingly:  “Oh!  Don’t mind the old heifer.  She’s jealous of any man Alice speaks to.”