“So good of you to come, dear,” she cried.  “This is Miss Wyeth, and these are my boys, Mr.—­” She spoke four meaningless names, and four meaningless smiles responded; four wet-combed heads were bowed.  She turned to her blonde companion, saying, “She is pretty, isn’t she, Alice?”

“Very,” Alice agreed, without removing her eyes from the youth at her left.

Bergman invited Lorelei to finish the dance; then he inquired, “What do you think of her?”

“Her hair fascinates me; she looks as if she had just burst out of a thicket of henna leaves.”  Bergman laughed, silently.  “But why did she invite me?”

“I told her to.”

“You?”

“I knew you’d refuse if I asked you.”

“So?  Then I’m really your guest instead of hers.”

“We’ll leave whenever you say.”

Throughout the rest of the dance Lorelei was silent, offended at Bergman’s deception and uncomfortable at her own situation; but the hostess had ordered a supper of the unsatisfactory kind usual in such places; little as she liked the prospect, she could not leave at once.

The meal was interrupted regularly each time the music played, for dancing was more than a fad in this set—­it was a serious business with which nothing was allowed to interfere.  The bulky widow was invariably the first upon her feet, and Miss Wyeth followed closely, yielding herself limply to the arms of first one, then another of the youthful coterie.  She held her slashed gown high, and in the more fanciful extravagances of the dance she displayed a slender limb to the knee.  She was imperturbable, unenthusiastic, utterly untiring.  The hostess, because of her brawn, made harder work of the exercise; but years of strenuous reducing had hardened her muscles, and she possessed the endurance of a bear.  Once the meal had dragged itself to a conclusion, there began the customary round of the dancing-places—­this being the popular conception of a lark—­and Lorelei allowed herself to be bundled in and out of the Thompson-Bellaire theater-car.  There was considerable drinking, Bergman, who devoted himself assiduously to his employee, showing more effect from it than the others.  He utterly refused to take her home.  As the night wore on he became more and more offensive; he grew coarse in a sly, tentative manner, as if feeling his ground.  He changed the manner of his dancing, also, until Lorelei could no longer tolerate him.

“Getting tired, my dear?” he queried, when she declined to join the whirling throng.

“Yes.  I want to go.”

“All right.”  He leered at her and nodded.  “Still living on Amsterdam Avenue?”

“No.  I’ve moved to the Elegancia.”

“So?  How does mother like it?”

“She’s—­I’m living alone.”

Bergman started, his eyes brightened.  “Ah!  Then you’ve come to your senses finally.  I thought you would.  Let’s finish this dance, anyhow.”