Adoree turned up her nose. "He's a little pink rabbit. I don't like any man, and I never have. There's only one I'd really care to meet; his name is Campbell Pope."
"The critic. He IS nice."
"The beast. Did you read what he said about me? I'll never rest until I have a lock of his hair that I've plucked myself. I'd love to have his whole scalp—with say, one ear attached—hanging on my bureau where I could see it every morning when I wake up. Somehow I don't seem to mind the press stuff that Aubrey puts out, but Pope—actually BELIEVES what he wrote. And other people will believe it, too. I—I—Gosh! I'm going to cry again."
Lorelei nodded in perfect sympathy; she did not laugh. "I haven't any girl chum; let's be friends," said she.
Adoree had been nibbling at marshmallows as she talked; as she wiped her eyes now she left a smear of powdered sugar on her cheek.
"I'd love to—I'm simply bursting to confide in somebody—but we couldn't go around together."
"Why? I don't care what people think."
"You can't afford to be reckless. We're each playing our own game and chasing the dollar in our own way. The men you met would make life unbearable for you if they knew we were pals. Aubrey was right: a girl must either be mighty good or mighty bad in this business—or make people think she is, which amounts to the same thing. You have had easy going because you're known to be straight; but if you ever get into the papers watch what will happen. You'll have to fight. You wouldn't like that kind of fighting, either, and—I'm not sure you could stand it."
As Lorelei walked homeward that afternoon she felt an unaccustomed warmth in her breast, and realized that she, too, had been very lonely in the city. The certainty that she had made a friend gladdened her heart. She looked forward with a thrill to the morrow when she could see Adoree again.
During her absence Jim had returned and departed; but a note was waiting for her. It had been brought by a messenger, and read: