"Indeed. What will the other men say? You had a character; nobody could say a word against you until now. Do you think any decent man would marry a girl who did a thing like this? Of course, I know you're a good girl, but they don't, and they'll believe absolutely the worst. You've spoiled everything, my dear; I'm completely discouraged." Mrs. Knight began to weep in a weak, heart-broken manner, expecting Lorelei to melt, as usual; but, seeing something in her daughter's expression that warned her not to carry her reproaches too far, she broke out: "You're SO hard, SO unreasonable. Don't you see I'm frantic with worry? You're all we have, and--and the thought of an injury to your prospects nearly kills me. You misunderstand everything I say. I--WISH you were safely married and out of danger. I think I could die happy then. It means so much to all of us to have you settled right away. Peter is failing every day; Jim is going to the dogs, and--I'm sick over it all." "I wish I WERE married and out of the way. You would all be fixed, at least. I--don't much care about myself." Lorelei sighed in hopeless weariness of spirit, for variations of this scene had been common of late, and they always filled her with the blackest pessimism. "Maybe Mr. Merkle--" "We'll leave him out of this," declared Lorelei; "he's too decent to have a person like me foisted upon him--and there's no reason whatever why he should be held responsible for my notoriety." She turned away from the dining-room with a shudder of distaste. "I don't want any breakfast. I think I'll get some air." As soon as she was out in the street she turned southward involuntarily, and set off toward the establishment of Adoree Demorest. Mrs. Knight dried her eyes and began to dress herself carefully, preparatory to a journey into the Wall Street section of the city, for the hour was drawing on toward three o'clock. Meanwhile Jim, having transacted his business at Goldberg's office, sought a more familiar haunt on one of the side-streets among the forties. Here, just off Broadway, was a famous barber-shop--a spotless place with white interior and tiled walls. Six Italians in stiff duck coats practised their arts at a row of well-equipped chairs. A wasp-waisted girl sat at the manicure-table next the front windows. As Jim entered she was holding the hand of a jaded person in a light-gray suit, and murmuring over it with an occasional upward glance from a pair of bold dark eyes.