When the four set out that night Robert Wharton was in exceptional spirits and, as always, devoted himself to Lorelei.  For him life was a joyous adventure; he took things as they came, and now that he knew the girl for what she was he did not allow himself the slightest liberty.  He was a fervent suitor, to be sure, yet he courted her with jests and concealed his ardor behind a playful raillery.

Jim had ordered supper at a popular Washington Heights inn, and thither the quartette were driven in an open car which he hired in the square beside the theater.

As the glassy expanse of upper Broadway unrolled before them Bob explained:  “My chauffeur quit to invest his savings in real estate, so I sold my machine.  If he’d only listened to my advice and bought stocks with my money I might have made a good commission and afforded to keep a car.  But nobody deals with the brokers nowadays.”  He sighed gloomily.  “We live lonely lives.  We are objects of suspicion—­even the newsboys bite the pennies we give them.”

Jim scoffed.  “I suppose you Pittsburg plunderers don’t know where your next meal is coming from.”

“Mine is coming from you, I hope, otherwise I’ll be a public charge until banking-hours.”

“You’ve been gambling again,” Lorelei accused.

Bob nodded carelessly.

At their destination they found seats on a balcony overlooking the Hudson; and Jim, being in funds, played host with a prodigality that mimicked Wharton.

It was a charming place for a supper; the wooded bluffs fell away abruptly and a cool breath from the river refreshed the diners; the inn itself was just comfortably filled with merry-makers whom the heat had driven from the asphalt canons farther down-town; in the distance the Jersey lights winked like glittering brilliants sewed into the night; other illuminations swam through the mysterious void separating the shores; an orchestra played, not too loudly, and several couples were dancing.  It had been a stifling week; people complained that they could not dine in comfort, yet they tangoed and trotted bravely wherever there was music and an open floor.

Contrary to her custom, Lilas Lynn allowed herself free rein, and for once drank more than was good for her, rejoicing openly in the liberty she had snatched.

It is a peculiar experience to sit soberly through a meal and see one’s companions become intoxicated.  Lorelei had often done so, carelessly enough, but now her recent worries had not only depressed her, but made her pensive, and it was in no approving mood that she watched Lilas and Bob respond to the effect of the wine.  The whole procedure struck her, like her present life as a whole, as both inane and wicked, and she longed desperately to lay hold of something really decent, true, and permanent.