In spite of Wharton’s reproachful tone, the gaze he bent upon Lorelei was good-humored, and she saw that he was in a mood different to any she had ever seen him in.  Strange to say, he was sober, or nearly so, and he was plainly determined to make her like him.

“Has he annoyed you, Miss Knight?” asked Pope.

“Dreadfully.”

Wharton explained further.  “The first time we met I deserved to be slapped, and I was.  You see, I was ruder than usual.  But I have sobered up purposely to apologize; I have repented, and—­well, here we are, thanks to brother James.”

“Thanks to—­Jim?” Lorelei raised her brows.

Pope turned to young Knight and said, politely, “That is my foot you are stamping on.”

Ignoring Jim’s mute appeal, Wharton ran on smilingly:  “He promised to shackle you to a table until I could stammer out my halting apologies, and now that I’ve done so in the presence of press and public won’t you forgive me and help me to bury the hatchet in a Welsh rarebit?” He was speaking directly to her with a genuine appeal in his handsome eyes.  Now that she saw him in his right mind, it was unexpectedly hard to resist him, for he was very boyish and friendly—­quite unlike the person who had so grievously offended her.

When she and Jim had first entered the restaurant they had received a polite but casual recognition from the head waiter, whose duty it was to know all the stage favorites; but there attentions had ceased.  With Wharton as a member of the party, however, there came a change.  The head waiter himself hustled forward and, catching Lorelei’s eye, signaled her with an appreciative droop of the lid.  Her arrangement with Proctor’s was of long standing, and her percentage was fixed, but this time she did not respond to the sign.  Mr. Proctor himself paused momentarily at the table and rested a hand upon Wharton’s shoulder while he voiced a few platitudes.  Then in some inexplicable manner Robert found himself not only ordering for himself, but supplementing Jim’s menu with rare and expensive viands.  As a great favor, he was advised of a newly imported vintage wine which the proprietor had secured for his own use; if Mr. Wharton wished to try it the steward would appeal directly to Mr. Proctor and secure the keys as a personal favor.  Nothing like this wine had been seen in New York for years, possibly in a lifetime; it was an opportunity, and Mr. Proctor was eager to accommodate those who really knew wines.  A visiting prince had offered him a fabulous price for the remaining bottles, but he had refused.  To partake of this vintage was almost like drinking up the sunshine; darkness, complete and eternal, would follow when this precious shipment was exhausted.