“Hm-m!  Nothing very extreme about that,” remarked Merkle, at length.  “It would be beautiful if it were better done.”

Lorelei agreed.  She had been staring with all a woman’s intentness at this sister whose strength consisted of her frailty, and now inquired: 

“How does she get away with it?”

“By the power of suggestion, I dare say.  Her public is looking for something devilish, and discovers whatever it chooses to imagine in what she says and does.”

Hannibal Wharton had changed his seat, and, regardless of the dancer, began a conversation with Merkle.  After a time Lorelei heard him say: 

“It cost me five thousand dollars to pay for the damage those boys did.  They threatened to jail Bob, but of course I couldn’t allow that.”

“I remember.  That was five years ago, and Bob hasn’t changed a whit.  I think he’s a menace to society.”

Wharton laughed, but his reply was lost in the clamorous demand for an encore by Mlle. Demorest.

“So he gets his devilment from you, eh?” Merkle inquired.

“It isn’t devilment.  Bob’s all right.  He’s running with a fast crowd, and he has to keep up his end.”

“Bah!  He hasn’t been sober in a year.”

“You’re a dyspeptic, John.  You were born with a gray beard, and you’re not growing younger.  He wanted to come to this party, but—­ I didn’t care to have him for obvious reasons, so I told Hammon to refuse him even if he asked.  He bet me a thousand dollars that he’d come anyhow, and I’ve been expecting him to overpower those doormen or creep up the fire-escape.”

The hand-clapping ceased as the dancer reappeared, smiling and bowing.

“I will dance again if you wish,” she announced, in perfect English, “introducing my new partner, Mr.—­” she glanced into the wings inquiringly—­“Senor Roberto.  It is his first public appearance in this country, and we will endeavor to execute a variation of the Argentine tango.  Senor Roberto is a poor boy; he begs you to applaud him in order that he may secure an engagement and support his old father.”  She stooped laughingly to confer with the orchestra leader, who had broken cover at her announcement.

Mr. Wharton was still talking.  “That’s my way of raising a son.  I taught Bob to drink when I drank, to smoke when I smoked, and all that.  My father raised me that way.”

The opening strain of a Spanish dance floated out from the hidden musicians, Mlle. Demorest whirled into view in the arms of a young man in evening dress.  She was still laughing, but her partner wore a grave face, and his eyes were lowered; he followed the intricate movements of the dance with some difficulty.  To Lorelei he appeared disappointingly amateurish.  Then a ripple of merriment, growing into a guffaw, advised her that something out of the ordinary was occurring.

“The—­scoundrel!” Hannibal Wharton cried.