Merkle observed dryly:  “He’s won your thousand.  I withdraw what I said about him; it requires a gigantic intelligence to outwit you.”  To Lorelei he added:  “This will be considered a great joke on Broadway.”

“That is Mr. Wharton’s son?”

“It is—­and the most dissipated lump of arrogance in New York.”

“Bob,” the father shouted, “quit that foolishness and come down here!” But the junior Wharton, his eyes fixed upon the stage, merely danced the harder.  When the exhibition ended he bowed, hand in hand with Miss Demorest, then leaped nimbly over the footlights and made his way toward Jarvis Hammon, nodding to the men as he passed.

A moment later he sank into a chair near his father, saying:  “Well, dad, what d’you think of my educated legs?  I learned that at night school.”

Wharton grumbled unintelligibly, but it was plain that he was not entirely displeased at his son’s prank.

“You were superb,” said Merkle, warmly.  “It’s the best thing I ever saw you do, Bob.  You could almost make a living for yourself at it.”

The young man grinned, showing rows of firm, strong teeth.  Lorelei, who was watching him, decided that he must have at least twice the usual number; yet it was a good mouth—­a good, big, generous mouth.

“Thanks for those glorious words of praise; that’s more than we’re doing on the Street nowadays.  Miss Demorest said we’d ‘execute’ the dance, and we did.  We certainly killed Senor Thomas W. Tango, and I’ll be shot at sunrise for stamping on Adoree’s insteps.  I looked before I leaped, but I couldn’t decide where to put my feet.  Whew!  Got any grape-juice for a growing boy?” He helped himself to his father’s wine-glass and drained it.  “You can settle now, dad—­one thousand iron men.  I owe it to Demorest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Debt of honor.  I heard she was due here with some kind of an electric thrill, so I offered her my share of the sweepstakes to further disgrace herself by dancing with me.  She’s an expensive doll; she needs that thousand—­mortgage on the old family opera-house, no shoes for little sister, and mother selling papers to square the landlord.”  He caught Lorelei’s eye and stared boldly.  “Hello!  I believe in fairies, too, dad.  Introduce me to the Princess.”

Merkle volunteered this service, and Bob promptly hitched his chair closer.  Lorelei saw that he was very drunk, and marveled at his control during the recent exhibition.

“Tell me more about the ‘Parti-color Petticoat’ and ’Dentol Chewing-Gum,’ Miss Knight.  Your face is a household word in every street-car,” he began.

She replied promptly, quoting haphazard from the various advertisements in which she figured.  “It never shrinks; it holds its shape; it must be seen to be appreciated; is cool, refreshing, and prevents decay.”

“How did you meet that French dancer?” Hannibal Wharton queried, sourly, of his son.