Nobel Bergman’s success in the show business had long been a mystery among those who knew him; for, to offset an undeniable theatrical talent, he possessed all the appetites, the frailties, and the passions of a rake.  It was perhaps most of all his keen personal appreciation of beauty that had made his companies the sensation of New York.  At any rate, he had done amazingly well for himself, and entertainments of a certain character had become known as “Bergman Shows,” just as show-girls of a dashing type were known as “Bergman Girls,” even when employed by rival managers.  In his office, or during the organization and production of his spectacles, he was a cold, shrewd man of business; once the venture had been launched, he became an amorous hanger-on, a jackal prowling in search of a kill.  His commercial caution steered him wide of the moral women in his employ, but the other kind, and especially the innocent or the inexperienced, had cause to know and to fear him.  In appearance he was slender and foppish; he affected a pronounced waist-line in his coats, his eyes were large and dark and brilliant, his mouth was sensual.  He never raised his voice, he never appeared to see plain women; such girls as accepted his attentions were sure of advancement, but paid for it in other ways.

On Monday evening Mr. Slosson, the press-agent, thrust his head through the dressing-room door and inquired:  “May I come in?”

“You are in.”

“I came to see Lorelei.  Say, there’s some society people out front who want to meet you, and you’re to join them after the show.”

“Indeed.  Who said so?”

“Bergman.”

“Declined, with thanks,” promptly said Lorelei.

“Oh, wait.  You can’t decline this; it’s business; Bergman says you must come as a personal favor to him.  Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire is giving a box-party, and she told him to fetch you around for supper.  She owns a piece of this show, and the theater belongs to the estate, so you’ll just have to go.”

“Mercy!  Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire, the college-boy’s giddy godmother,” Lilas mocked.  “I suppose she’s out slumming, with her kindergarten class.”

Slosson frowned at this levity.  “Will you go?” he inquired.  “Yes or no?”

“Um-m—­I’ll have to say ‘yes,’ it seems.”

“Good.  I’ll ’phone Bergman.”

When the press-agent had gone Lilas regarded her companion with open compassion.  “Gee!  But you’re going to have a grand time.  That bunch thinks it’s smart to be seen with show-people, and of course they’ll dance all night.”

Lorelei groaned.  “And I did so want to go straight back to my new home.”  When she joined her employer after the show she was in no very agreeable frame of mind.

Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire was a vermilion-haired widow with a chest like a blacksmith, who had become famous for her jewels and her social eccentricities.  She and her party were established at one of the up-town “Trottoires,” when Nobel Bergman and Lorelei arrived.  Three examples of blushing boyhood devoted themselves to a languid blonde girl of thirty-five, and the hostess herself was dancing with another tender youth, but she came forward, panting.