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There was a moment of silence during which he folded and replaced the report; then he shook his head, exclaiming, "Second-hand goods, my boy!" "That's a lie!" Lorelei's voice was like a whip. Mr. Wharton eyed her grimly. "That's something for Bob to determine I have only the indications to go on. I don't blame him for losing his wits you're very good-looking but the affair must end.
"I supposed you were like all the others." "Well, I'm not. When I'm away from the theater I try to forget it. I hate the business." The reply, which came with sincere feeling, widened Lorelei's eyes with uncontrollable surprise. "Here, too," said Adoree Demorest, quietly. "But I'm not allowed to forget it. Our first meeting made me think you were out with banners.
"What has happened to make you give thanks?" I asked, disposing hurriedly of the neckties. "Any port in a storm even Albport. And there is a storm, an awful storm; at least "Lorelei's" staggering about as if she were half-seas over, and if you don't get us off at once every soul on board will be lost, or, what's worse, seasick. A nice beginning for the trip!"
Rosamond Vincy is not the only example which might be furnished, either in or out of print, in proof that a low, soft voice, that excellent thing in woman, may have a wrongly persuasive accent, luring to disappointment and death, like the Lorelei's song, to which the harsh tones of the most strong-minded Xantippe are to be preferred.
Every star sent a trail of light to the still water, seeming to fasten the sky to the sea with long silver skewers; wonderful phosphorescence played about beneath us like wraiths of drowned men luring one to destruction; while in the musical lap of the water against the ship's side one almost fancied the sound of Lorelei's singing.
When Lorelei's trunks were dumped inside, the chaos appeared complete. She was not accustomed to rely upon her own hands, and at this moment she felt none of the pride that comes of independence. Instead of the glad spirit of freedom she had anticipated she was filled with dismaying doubts.
She's our only daughter and our only support, see? We can't bear to let her go. If you'd only help me to the 'phone " The retort that came back was shrewish, but the next instant Mathilda's voice became as honey. "How DO you do, Mr. Wharton?" she was bubbling. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting, but I couldn't imagine ... Yes, this is Lorelei's mother.
Harden Fennell, Lorelei's host, explained: "We don't dance in the cafes any more. They're so strict it's no fun." Fennell was a slight man of thirty or fifty, colorless of face and predatory of nose. He had a shocking sense of humor, which he displayed by telling Lorelei a story that left her mute with indignation until she saw that he was quite unconscious of any breach of etiquette.
The success of his exploit had been so gratifying that he had repeated the performance, but he was in a far different mood now as he left the Elegancia. The shock of Lorelei's announcement, the sight of his stricken friend, had sobered him considerably, yet he was not himself by any means.
She snuggled closer to him, murmuring, cozily "I don't want to think we'll have plenty of time to think when we're too old to talk. Now, I just want to love you as hard as you have been loving me for the last six months." During the days of Lorelei's recovery Bob Wharton was in a peculiarly exultant mood.
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