Miss Demorest yielded, not without some regret. "I was going to cook the supper myself, and I'm all done up like a sore foot; but I'll remove the bandages. I suppose you know the potatoes are peeled and the salad will spoil unless I bring it?"
"Then bring it, and hurry."
Lorelei was not quite sure that Bob would consent to dine in the modest little home, but under the circumstances idleness was maddening, so she fell to work. It seemed very odd, when she thought of it, for the bride of a millionaire to prepare a meal with her own hands, but anything was preferable to dining out, in her present frame of mind. This was very different from what she had expected, but—everything was different. Once the marriage had become known to Bob's people and he had thoroughly sobered down, once she had withdrawn from the cast of the Revue, their real life would begin.
Bob was pale and a bit unsteady when he arrived, but Lorelei saw that he suffered only from the effects of his previous debauch. He was extremely self-conscious and uneasy in her presence, though he kissed her with a brave show of confidence.
"I galloped into the bank just as they slammed the doors," he explained, "but my bookkeeping is rotten."
"Yes?"
"My accounts somehow never tally with theirs, and they always explain very patiently—it's a patient bank—that they use adding-machines. Beastly nuisance, this constant figuring, especially when you never hit the right answer. But a man can't expect to compete with one of those mechanical contraptions."
"Are you trying to tell me that you have overdrawn?"
"Exactly. But I drew against the old gentleman, as usual, so on with the dance. What's the—er—idea of the apron?"
"It's nearly dinner-time."