The music was playing; other couples were dancing, and he seized her in his arms, whirling her away.  In and out among the chairs he piloted a dizzy course, while she yielded reluctantly, conscious, meanwhile, that Adoree Demorest was watching them with interest.

For an interval Wharton said nothing; then, with a change of tone, he murmured in her ear:  “D’you think I’d let you spoil the whole night?  Can’t you see I’m crazy about you?”

Lorelei endeavored to free herself from his embrace, but he clutched her the tighter and laughed insolently.

“Nothing like a good ‘turkey’ to get acquainted, is there?  We’re going to dance till we’re old folks.”

She continued to struggle; they were out of step and out of time, but he held her away from himself easily, bending a hot glance upon her upturned face.  She saw that he was panting and doubly drunk with her nearness.  “Don’t fight.  I’ve got you.”

She was smiling faintly, out of habit, but, mistaking her expression, he drew her close once more, then buried his face in her neck and kissed her just at the turn of her bare shoulder.

Then she tore herself away, and his triumphant laugh was cut short as she slapped him resoundingly, her stinging fingers leaving their imprint on his cheek.

Her eyes were flaming and her lips were white with fury, though she continued to smile.

“Here!  What d’you mean by that?” he cried.

She silenced him sharply:  “Hush!  Remember you broke in here.  I’d like to see you in that fountain.”

There was a swish of garments, a musical laugh, and Adoree Demorest was between them.

“I’m madly jealous, Senor Roberto,” she exclaimed.  “Come, you must dance once more with me.  We’ll finish this.  What?” She swayed toward him in sympathy with the music, snapping her fingers and humming the words of the song.

“She—­walloped me—­like a sailor,” the young man stammered, incoherently.  “She—­wants to see me in the fountain.”

“Then jump in like a gentleman,” laughed the danseuse.  “But dance with me first.”  She entwined her arms about him and forced him into motion.  As she danced away she signaled over her shoulder to Lorelei, who made haste to seek the cloak-room.

When she emerged John Merkle was waiting in the hall.  A shout of laughter echoed from the banquet-hall, and she started.

“That’s nothing,” Merkle told her.  “Bob Wharton is in the fountain.  He says he’s a goldfish.”

CHAPTER V

One of the minor readjustments forced upon the Knight family by the nature of Lorelei’s work was that of meal-hours.  Peter, from long custom of early rising in the country, insisted upon his breakfast at seven, and in spite of his inaction demanded dinner at noon and supper at six.  Jim, being erratic in habit, exacted his meals at any hour that suited his appetite, while Mrs. Knight, now that she had