She was forceful, frank, naive. She was impressed by his nearness; but
Lane saw that it was the fact of his being a soldier with a record,
not his mere physical propinquity that affected her. She seemed both
bold and shy. But she did not show any modesty. Her short skirt came
above her bare knees, and she did not try to hide them from Lane's
sight. At fifteen, like his sister Lorna, this girl had the
development of a young woman. She breathed health, and something
elusive that Lane could not catch. If it had not been for her apparent
lack of shame, and her rouged lips and cheeks, and her plucked
eyebrows, she would have been exceedingly alluring. But no beauty,
however striking, could under these circumstances, stir Lane's heart.
He was fascinated, puzzled, intensely curious.

"Why wouldn't you dance jazz in front of me?" he inquired, with a
smile.

"Well, for one thing I'm not stuck on it, and for another I'll say you
said a mouthful."

"Is that all?" he asked, as if disappointed.

"No. I'd respect what you said--because of where you've been and what
you've done."

It was a reply that surprised Lane.

"I'm out of date, you know."

She put a finger on the medal on his breast and said: "You could never
be out of date."

The music and the sliding shuffle ceased.

"Now beat it," said Helen. "I want to talk to Daren." She gayly shoved
the young people ahead of her in a mass, and called to Bessy: "Here,
you kid vamp, lay off Daren."

Bessy leaned to whisper in his ear: "Make a date with me, quick!"

"Surely, I'll hunt you up. Good-bye."

She was the only one who made any pretension of saying good-bye to
Lane. They all crowded out before Helen, with Mackay in the rear. From
the hall Lane heard him say to Helen: "Dick'll sure go to the mat with
you for this."

Presently Helen returned to shut the door behind her; and her walk
toward Lane had a suggestion of the oriental dancer. For Lane her face
was a study. This seemed a woman beyond his comprehension. She was the
Helen Wrapp he had known and loved, plus an age of change, a
measureless experience. With that swaying, sinuous, pantherish grace,
with her green eyes narrowed and gleaming, half mocking, half serious,
she glided up to him, close, closer until she pressed against him, and
her face was uplifted under his. Then she waited with her eyes gazing
into his. Slumberous green depths, slowly lighting, they seemed to
Lane. Her presence thus, her brazen ch