The Auction Block | Page 4

a twilight blue. Her single paternal inheritance was a
smile perhaps a trifle too ready and too meaningless. Yet it was a
pleasant smile, indicative of a disposition toward courtesy, if not self-
depreciation.
But there all resemblance ceased. Lorelei Knight was mysteriously
different from her kin; she might almost have sprung from a different
strain, and except as one of those "throwbacks" which sometimes occur

in a mediocre family, when an exotic offspring blooms like a delicate
blossom in a bed of weeds, she was inexplicable. Simple living had
made her strong, yet she remained exquisite; behind a natural and a
deep reserve she was vibrant with youth and spirits.
In the doorway she hesitated an instant, favoring the group with her
shadowy, impersonal smile. In her gaze there was a faint inquiry, for it
was plain that she had interrupted a serious discussion. She came
forward and rested a hand upon her father's thinly haired bullet-head.
Peter reached up and took it in his own moist palm.
"We were just talking about you," he said.
"Yes?" The smile remained as the girl's touch lingered.
"Your ma thinks I'd better accept that New York offer on your
account."
"On mine? I don't understand."
Peter stroked the hand in his clasp, and his weak, upturned face was
wrinkled with apprehension. "She thinks you should see the world
and--make something of yourself."
"That would be nice." Lorelei's lips were still parted as she turned
toward her mother in some bewilderment.
"You'd like the city, wouldn't you?" Mrs. Knight inquired.
"Why, yes; I suppose so."
"We're poor--poorer than we've ever been. Jim will have to work, and
so will you."
"I'll do what I can, of course; but--I don't know how to do anything. I'm
afraid I won't be much help at first."
"We'll see to that. Now, run along, dearie."

When she had gone Peter gave a grunt of conviction.
"She IS pretty," he acknowledged; "pretty as a picture, and you
certainly dress her well. She'd ought to make a good actress."
Jim echoed him enthusiastically. "Pretty? I'll bet Bernhardt's got
nothing on her for looks. She'll have a brownstone hut on Fifth Avenue
and an air-tight limousine one of these days, see if she don't."
"When do you plan to leave?" faltered the father.
Mrs. Knight answered with some satisfaction: "Rehearsals commence
in May."

CHAPTER II
Mr. Cambell Pope was a cynic. He had cultivated a superb contempt
for those beliefs which other people cherish; he rejoiced in an open
rebellion against convention, and manifested this hostility in an
exaggerated carelessness of dress and manner. It was perhaps his habit
of thought as much as anything else that had made him a dramatic critic;
but it was a knack for keen analysis and a natural, caustic wit that had
raised him to eminence in his field. Outwardly he was a sloven and a
misanthrope; inwardly he was simple and rather boyish, but years of
experience in a box-office, then as advance man and publicity agent for
a circus, and finally as a Metropolitan reviewer, had destroyed his
illusions and soured his taste for theatrical life. His column was widely
read; his name was known; as a prophet he was uncanny, hence
managers treated him with a gingerly courtesy not always quite sincere.
Most men attain success through love of their work; Mr. Pope had
become an eminent critic because of his hatred for the drama and all
things dramatic. Nor was he any more enamoured of journalism, being
in truth by nature bucolic, but after trying many occupations and failing
in all of them he had returned to his desk after each excursion into other
fields. First-night audiences knew him now, and had come to look for

his thin, sharp features. His shapeless, wrinkled suit that resembled a
sleeping-bag; his flannel shirt, always tieless and frequently collarless,
were considered attributes of genius; and, finding New York to be
amazingly gullible, he took a certain delight in accentuating his
eccentricities. At especially prominent premieres he affected a sweater
underneath his coat, but that was his nearest approach to formal
evening dress. Further concession to fashion he made none.
Owing to the dearth of new productions this summer, Pope had
undertaken a series of magazine articles descriptive of the reigning
theatrical beauties, and, while he detested women in general and the
painted favorites of Broadway in particular, he had forced himself to
write the common laudatory stuff which the public demanded. Only
once had he given free rein to his inclinations and written with a
poisoned pen. To-night, however, as he entered the stage door of
Bergman's Circuit Theater, it was with a different intent.
Regan, the stage-door tender, better known since his vaudeville days as
"The Judge," answered his greeting with a lugubrious