Mother and daughter were loitering over a midday breakfast, and Lorelei, according to custom, was recounting the incidents of the previous evening.
"It's too bad you quarreled with Mr. Wharton," Mrs. Knight commented, when she heard the full story of Hammon's party. "He'll dislike you now."
The girl shrugged daintily. "He was drunk and fresh. I can't bear a man in such a condition."
"But—he's terribly rich, and he's an only son. He'll inherit everything. Is he nice-looking?"
"Um-m—yes."
"You shouldn't antagonize a man like him, my dear. He's single, at least; and naturally he's impulsive, like all those young millionaires. They have so many girls to choose from, you know. Young Powell, who married Norma Gale, was the same sort. She was twice his age, but he married her just the same, and his people made a fine settlement to get rid of her. She was—tough, too. Mrs. Wharton is a great club—woman and the head of a thousand charities."
"That's no sign she's charitable."
"You can't tell. She might take you right into the family."
"Bob is an alcoholic. He's no good, so Mr. Merkle said."
Jim, who was immersed in the morning paper, spoke from his chair near the window.