Now, Kurtz was worldly and therefore tolerant.  He had grown to like and to understand his young associate very well indeed, and something about Bob’s riotous disposition to gladness awoke a response in the little tailor.

It was that expansive and expensive hour of the afternoon when business worries are dropped and before social cares are shouldered.  It was cocktail-time along the Avenue, the hour when sprees are born and engagements broken, and as it lengthened Wharton celebrated it as in days gone by.  His last regret had vanished, he was having a splendid time, when a page called him to a telephone-booth.

Adoree’s voice greeted him; she was speaking from his own home, and her first words almost sobered him.  Something was wrong; Bob was needed quickly; Lorelei was asking for him.  For more than an hour they had been vainly trying to locate him.  They had succeeded in reaching the doctor, and he was there—­with a nurse.  Adoree’s voice broke—­probably it was nothing serious, but Lorelei was frightened and so was the speaker.  Bob had better waste no time, for—­one never could tell what might happen in cases of this sort.

When Bob lurched out of the booth he was white; the noisy group he had left rose in alarm at sight of his stricken face.  His legs led him a crooked course out of the cafe, bringing him into collision with chairs and tables and causing him to realize for the first time how far he had allowed himself to go.  In a shaking voice he called for a taxi-cab, meanwhile allowing the raw air of the street to cool his head.

But as he was hurried up the Avenue his fright grew until he lost himself in a dizzy, drunken panic.  He tried to lay hold of himself, but his thoughts were as unruly as his legs had been.  The significance of his conduct and its probable effect upon his wife filled him with horror.  Fate had cunningly timed her punishment.  Before long he began to attribute this catastrophe, whatever it might prove to be, directly to his own criminal behavior, and for once in his care-free life he knew the taste of bitter regret.  But he could not think coherently; black fears were pouring in upon him with a speed to match the staggering objects that fled past his open cab window.

The terror of the unknown was upon him.  What if Lorelei should die?  Bob asked himself.  A swing of the vehicle flung him into a corner, where he huddled, slack-jawed, staring.  He was unable to shut out this last suggestion.  If Lorelei died he would be her murderer, that was plain.  He had wanted a child, to be sure, but until this moment he had never counted the risk nor realized what price might be exacted.  No child could be worth a risk to Lorelei.

But regrets were unavailing.  “Something had gone wrong,” and Lorelei needed him.  She was calling for him and he was drunk.  He would reel up to her bed of pain with bleared eyes, with poisoned lips.  How could he kiss her?  How could he explain?