"Where?" demanded his son.
"Anywhere. You can't stay here."
"You're infallible in business, dad," Bob protested, "but where sentiment is concerned you're a terrible failure."
"Not at all! Not at all!" Mr. Wharton exclaimed, irritably. "I know real sentiment when I see it, and I'll foot the bill for this counterfeit, but I'm too tired to argue."
Lorelei was standing very white and still; now she said, "Don't you think you'd better go?"
The elder man laid aside his hat and gloves, then spoke with snarling deliberation. "I'll go when I choose. No high and mighty airs with me, if you please." After a curious scrutiny of them both he asked his son: "You don't really imagine that she married you for anything except your money, do you?"
"I flattered myself—" Bob began, stiffly.
"Bah! You're drunk."
"Moderately, perhaps—or let us say that I am in an unnaturally argumentative mood. I take issue with you. You see, dad, I've been crazy about Lorelei ever since I first saw her, and—"
"To be sure, that's quite natural. But why in hell did you MARRY her?
That wasn't necessary, was it?"