"Oh, ring and be damned!" he cried. "Call Bob. I'll tell him you asked me in." He moved toward her, his body swaying, his hands shaking, his face convulsed; but as he groped forward she snatched one of the electric candlesticks from among her toilet articles and swung it above her head. The fixture was of heavy brass, and its momentum ripped the connection from its socket; her arm was tense with the strength of utter loathing as she brought the weapon down. Hayman reeled away, covering his face with his hands and cursing wildly; then, profiting by his retreat, Lorelei was at the door, had turned the key, and was in the hall before he could prevent her. Guided more by instinct than by reason or memory, she found Mrs. Fennell's chamber and pounded upon its door with blind fury. She heard a stir from the direction whence she had come, and Hayman's voice calling something unintelligible; then Mrs. Fennell's startled face appeared before her. "What's the matter? My DEAR! You'll wake everybody in the house." "Your brother--forced his way into--my room." "What are you talking about?" Mrs. Fennell drew her guest swiftly inside. "Hush! Don't make a show of yourself." "Wha's all this?" came from Harden Fennell, who was sprawled in a chintz-covered easy-chair, minus coat, waistcoat, and collar. He rose slowly as Lorelei, incoherent with rage, poured out her story. "Wha's trouble?" he mumbled. "Bob's all right--and so's Bert. They're both drunk, but Bob's the drunkes'. What're you talkin' about, anyhow?" "Be still!" his wife cried, sharply. "It's Bertie again." Then of Lorelei she inquired: "But why did you let him into your room if--if you were going to quarrel--" "Mrs. Fennell!" "Now, now! Don't be silly. Bertie didn't mean anything; he's intoxicated and--there's no harm done. You said you struck him with something. I presume he's hurt, and everybody in the house will know about it." "Got into your room, eh?" Harden Pennell said, thickly, then exploded in moist laughter. "Bertie's work is all right, but it's coarse. Don't you mind him, Mrs. Wharton." "Will you send some one for Bob?" Lorelei asked, more quietly. "I want to--leave." But her hostess protested. "Now why stir up trouble? Bob is drunk; he and Bertie are old friends. Bertie will apologize in the morning, and--after all, it was nothing. I told you he was mad about you. He's just like any other man, and you shouldn't have encouraged him." "Will you send for my husband?" Mrs. Fennell's gaze hardened; she stiffened herself, saying coldly: "Why, certainly, if you insist upon rousing the whole household; but he's in no condition to understand this silly affair. You might have SOME consideration for us." "Sure!" echoed the husband. "Go to sleep and forget it. Don't spoil the party." "You realize we have other guests?" snapped Mrs. Fennell. Bright disks of color were burning in Lorelei's cheeks; she was smiling peculiarly.