“No.”

Jim seized Wharton’s hand and shook it lustily.  “Congratulations, old man; that means yes.  I’m her brother, and I know.  Why, she told father that you were her ideal, and pa said he’d die happy if you two were married.  He meant it, too; he’s a mighty sick man.”

Lorelei stirred uncomfortably, and the faint color in her cheeks faded slowly.  “We’ll talk about it some other time—­to-morrow.  Please don’t tease the poor man any more.  He didn’t know what he was saying, and—­now, for Heaven’s sake, talk about something else.”

Jim leaped to his feet with a grin and a chuckle, then drew Lilas from her chair, saying:  “The lovers are embarrassed, and they’re dying to be alone.  Let’s leave ’em to talk it over.”

“She’s a dear, Bob, and I wish you both joy.  But don’t kiss her here,” said Lilas, warningly; then with a wave of her hand she turned toward the dancing-room with Jim.

“Call us when you’ve fixed the date,” laughed the latter, over his shoulder.

When he and Lilas had danced the encore and returned to the table Bob rose unsteadily, glass in hand, and nodded at them.

“Thanks, noble comrades,” he proclaimed; “she’s mine!”

“Hurrah!” Lilas kissed Lorelei effusively.  Jim seized Bob’s hand, crying: 

“Brother!” He waved to a waiter and ordered a magnum of champagne.  “Bring me a wreath of orange blossoms and a wedding-cake, too.”  His jubilation attracted the attention of the other diners; the occupants of a near-by table began to applaud, whereupon Bob beamed with delight.

Lorelei was very white now, but she was given no chance to speak.  Nor was there anything for her to say, torn as she was by conflicting emotions and uncertain of what feeling most strongly possessed her.  Foremost in her thoughts was the realization that she had won the fight she had been reared and trained for, that the climax of her worldly hopes had come; but with this she also experienced a sickly loathing for herself.  During Bob’s protestations of love she had fought a brief but disastrous battle.  That moral perfidy which had been her teaching since childhood had influenced her decision no more perhaps than her terror at the plight in which her mysterious persecution had left her.  Weighing on the same side with these considerations were also the needs of her family, her own bitter distaste for her present life, and her desire for peace and outward respectability even at the cost of secret degradation.  She had decided swiftly, recklessly, reasoning that this proffered marriage was merely a bargain by which she got more than she gave.  She had accepted without allowing her better self an opportunity to marshal its protests, and, having closed her eyes and leaped into the dark, it now seemed easier to meet new consequences than to heed those higher feelings that were tardily struggling for expression.  She did pity Wharton, however, for it seemed to her that he was the injured party.  When he was himself he was a very decent fellow, and it was a contemptible trick thus to cheat him.  It would have been less ignoble to sell herself outright to a man she detested—­ for the transaction would then have been one of dollars and cents, purely, a sacrifice prompted by necessity, so she reasoned—­ whereas to impose upon the weakness of one she rather liked was not only dishonest, but vile.