The Auction Block | Page 7

and she seemed vexed by her mother's explanation.
He, too, resented Mrs. Knight's share in the conversation. He did not
like the elder woman's face, nor her voice, nor her manner. She
impressed him as another theatrical type with which he was
familiar--the stage mama. He found himself marveling at the
dissimilarity of the two women.
"Of course, a famous beauty does meet a lot of people," he said. "Tell
me what you think of our nourishing little city and our New York
men."

But Lorelei raised a slender hand.
"Not for worlds. Besides, you're making fun of me now. I was afraid to
see you, and I'd feel terribly if you printed anything I really told you.
Good interviewers never do that. They come and talk about nothing,
then go away and put the most brilliant things into your mouth. You are
considered a very dangerous person, Mr. Pope."
"You're thinking of my story about that Demorest woman again," he
laughed.
"Is she really as bad as you described her?"
"I don't know, never having met the lady. I wouldn't humiliate myself
by a personal interview, so I built a story on the Broadway gossip.
Inasmuch as she goes in for notoriety, I gave her some of the best I had
in stock. Her photographer did the rest."
The door curtains parted, and Lilas Lynn, a slim, black-eyed young
woman, entered. She greeted Pope cordially as she removed her hat and
handed it to the woman who acted as dresser for the two occupants of
the room.
"I'm late, as usual," she said. "But don't leave on my account." She
disappeared into the lavatory, and emerged a moment later in a
combing-jacket; seating herself before her own mirrors, she dove into a
cosmetic can and vigorously applied a priming coat to her features,
while the dresser drew her hair back and secured it tightly with a
wig-band. "Lorelei's got her nerve to talk to you after the panning you
gave Demorest," she continued. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself to
strike a defenseless star?"
Pope nodded. "I am, and I'm ashamed of my entire sex when I hear of
them flocking to the Palace Garden just to see a woman who has
nothing to distinguish her but a reputation for vileness."
"Did you see the crown jewels--the King's Cabachon rubies?" Lorelei
asked.

"Only from the front. I dare say they're as counterfeit as she is."
Miss Lynn turned, revealing a countenance as shiny as that of an
Eskimo belle. With her war-paint only half applied and her hair secured
closely to her small head, she did not in the least resemble the dashing
"Countess" of the program.
"Oh, they're real enough. I got that straight."
Campbell Pope scoffed.
"Isn't it true about the King of Seldovia? Didn't she wreck his throne?"
eagerly queried Mrs. Knight.
"I never met the King, and I haven't examined his throne. But, you
know, kings can do no wrong, and thrones are easily mended."
But Mrs. Knight was insistent; her eyes glittered, her sharp nose was
thrust forward inquisitively. "They say she draws two thousand a week,
and won't go to supper with a man for less than five hundred dollars.
She says if fellows want to be seen in public with her they'll have to
pay for it, and she's right. Of course, she's terribly bad, but you must
admit she's done mighty well for herself."
"We'll have a chance to see her to-night," announced Lilas. "Mr.
Hammon is giving a big supper to some of his friends and we're
going--Lorelei and I. Demorest is down for her 'Danse de Nuit.' They
say it's the limit."
"Hammon, the steel man?" queried the critic, curiously.
"Sure. There's only one Hammon. But nix on the newspaper story; this
is a private affair."
"Never let us speak ill of a poor Pittsburgh millionaire," laughed Pope.
"Scandal must never darken the soot of that village." He turned as
Slosson, the press-agent of the show, entered with a bundle of
photographs.

"Here are the new pictures of Lorelei for your story, old man," Mr.
Slosson said. "Bergman will appreciate the boost for one of his girls.
Help yourself to those you want. If you need any more stuff I'll supply
it. Blushing country lass just out of the alfalfa belt--first appearance on
any stage--instantaneous hit, and a record for pulchritude in an
aggregation where the homeliest member is a Helen of Troy. Every
appearance a riot; stage-door Johns standing on their heads; members
of our best families dying to lead her to the altar; under five-year
contract with Bergman, and refuses to marry until the time's up.
Delancey Page, the artist, wants to paint her, and says she's the perfect
American type at last. Say, Bergman can certainly pick 'em, can't he?