“I don’t want to be seen dancing too much with you.”

“Why?”

“You understand why, Mr. Bergman.”  She eyed him coolly.

The lines of his sinister face, loosened and sagging slightly from drink, deepened for an instant.  “Let them talk.  I can do more for you than Merkle can.”

“Merkle?” Her expression did not change.

“Now don’t let’s deceive each other.”  He had never found it necessary to cultivate patience in his dealings with women, and when she pretended ignorance of his meaning he flared out, half in weariness, half in anger: 

“Oh, play your game with strangers, but don’t put me off.  Weren’t you caught with him at the Chateau?  Hasn’t he fixed you up at the Elegancia?  Well, then—­”

“You needn’t finish.  I’m going home now.”

He laid a detaining hand upon her arm.  “You never learned that speech in one of my shows,” he said, “and you’re not going to say good night to me.  Understand?” He grinned at her with disgusting confidence, and she flung off his touch.  They had been speaking in low tones, because of the two vacant-faced boys across the table; now Lorelei turned appealingly to them.  But they were not creatures upon whom any woman might rely.  Nor could she avail herself of Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire’s assistance, for the widow’s reputation was little better than Bergman’s, and from her attitude it was plain that she had lent herself to his designs.  He was murmuring slyly: 

“You’re a sensible girl; you want to get ahead.  Well, I can put you at the top, or—­”

“Or—­what?” She faced him defiantly.

“Or I can put you out of the business.”

The returning dancers offered a welcome diversion.

Lorelei dreaded an open clash with the manager, knowing that the place, the hour, and the conditions were ill suited to a scene.  She had learned to smile and to consider swiftly, to cross the thin ice of an embarrassing situation with light steps.  Quickly she turned to Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire, who was bowing effusively to a newcomer.

“My word!  What is Bob Wharton doing here?” exclaimed the widow.

“Bob Wharton?  Where?” Miss Wyeth’s languor vanished electrically; she wrenched her attention from the wire-haired fraternity man at her side.  Lorelei felt a sense of great thanksgiving.

Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire beckoned, and Wharton came forward, his eyes fixed gloomily upon Lorelei.

“You rascal!  So this is how you waste your evenings.  I am surprised, but, now that we’ve caught you, won’t you join us?”

Wharton glanced at the four pawns and hesitated.  “It’s long past nine; I’m afraid the boys will be late for school.”

Miss Wyeth tittered; the sophomore with the bristling pompadour uttered a bark of amusement.  Meeting Bob’s questioning glance, Lorelei seconded the invitation with a nod and a quick look of appeal, whereupon his demeanor changed and he drew a chair between her and Nobel Bergman, forcing the latter to move.  His action was pointed, almost rude, but the girl felt a surge of gratitude sweep over her.