a housemaid, ate with first one, then another.  But no matter how chaotic the general household schedule, Lorelei was always assured of ten hours’ sleep, a dainty breakfast upon rising, and a substantial meal before theater-time.  Her mother saw to it that this program was religiously adhered to.  At whatever hour of the night Lorelei might come in, no sound was ever allowed to disturb her until she arose.  Irrespective also of her careless disregard of social appointments, she was never permitted to miss one with the hair-dresser, the manicure, the masseuse, or the dozen and one other beauty specialists who form as important an adjunct to the stage-woman’s career as to that of the woman of fashion.  All this was a vital part of that plan to which the mother had devoted herself.  She attended the girl’s health and good looks with a devout singleness of purpose that would have been admirable in a better cause.  No race-horse on the eve of a Derby was groomed more carefully than this budding woman.  In preparing her for masculine conquest the entire family took a hand.  Her prospects, her actions, her triumphs, were the main topic of conversation; all other interests were subordinated to the matrimonial quest upon which she had embarked.  The men she met were investigated, discussed, speculated upon until their every characteristic was worn threadbare.  The domestic arrangements that resulted were of necessity unhappy, for the housework was allowed to take care of itself.  The male members shifted as best they could, and the home was forever in slovenly confusion.  Nevertheless, the existing condition of affairs met the approval of all; and the three conspirators lived in a constant state of eager expectation over Lorelei’s fortunes.

Mother and daughter were loitering over a midday breakfast, and Lorelei, according to custom, was recounting the incidents of the previous evening.

“It’s too bad you quarreled with Mr. Wharton,” Mrs. Knight commented, when she heard the full story of Hammon’s party.  “He’ll dislike you now.”

The girl shrugged daintily.  “He was drunk and fresh.  I can’t bear a man in such a condition.”

“But—­he’s terribly rich, and he’s an only son.  He’ll inherit everything.  Is he nice-looking?”

“Um-m—­yes.”

“You shouldn’t antagonize a man like him, my dear.  He’s single, at least; and naturally he’s impulsive, like all those young millionaires.  They have so many girls to choose from, you know.  Young Powell, who married Norma Gale, was the same sort.  She was twice his age, but he married her just the same, and his people made a fine settlement to get rid of her.  She was—­tough, too.  Mrs. Wharton is a great club—­woman and the head of a thousand charities.”

“That’s no sign she’s charitable.”

“You can’t tell.  She might take you right into the family.”

“Bob is an alcoholic.  He’s no good, so Mr. Merkle said.”

Jim, who was immersed in the morning paper, spoke from his chair near the window.