“That would be nice.”  Lorelei’s lips were still parted as she turned toward her mother in some bewilderment.

“You’d like the city, wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Knight inquired.

“Why, yes; I suppose so.”

“We’re poor—­poorer than we’ve ever been.  Jim will have to work, and so will you.”

“I’ll do what I can, of course; but—­I don’t know how to do anything.  I’m afraid I won’t be much help at first.”

“We’ll see to that.  Now, run along, dearie.”

When she had gone Peter gave a grunt of conviction.

“She is pretty,” he acknowledged; “pretty as a picture, and you certainly dress her well.  She’d ought to make a good actress.”

Jim echoed him enthusiastically.  “Pretty?  I’ll bet Bernhardt’s got nothing on her for looks.  She’ll have a brownstone hut on Fifth Avenue and an air-tight limousine one of these days, see if she don’t.”

“When do you plan to leave?” faltered the father.

Mrs. Knight answered with some satisfaction:  “Rehearsals commence in May.”

CHAPTER II

Mr. Cambell Pope was a cynic.  He had cultivated a superb contempt for those beliefs which other people cherish; he rejoiced in an open rebellion against convention, and manifested this hostility in an exaggerated carelessness of dress and manner.  It was perhaps his habit of thought as much as anything else that had made him a dramatic critic; but it was a knack for keen analysis and a natural, caustic wit that had raised him to eminence in his field.  Outwardly he was a sloven and a misanthrope; inwardly he was simple and rather boyish, but years of experience in a box-office, then as advance man and publicity agent for a circus, and finally as a Metropolitan reviewer, had destroyed his illusions and soured his taste for theatrical life.  His column was widely read; his name was known; as a prophet he was uncanny, hence managers treated him with a gingerly courtesy not always quite sincere.

Most men attain success through love of their work; Mr. Pope had become an eminent critic because of his hatred for the drama and all things dramatic.  Nor was he any more enamoured of journalism, being in truth by nature bucolic, but after trying many occupations and failing in all of them he had returned to his desk after each excursion into other fields.  First-night audiences knew him now, and had come to look for his thin, sharp features.  His shapeless, wrinkled suit that resembled a sleeping-bag; his flannel shirt, always tieless and frequently collarless, were considered attributes of genius; and, finding New York to be amazingly gullible, he took a certain delight in accentuating his eccentricities.  At especially prominent premieres he affected a sweater underneath his coat, but that was his nearest approach to formal evening dress.  Further concession to fashion he made none.