ey were engaged before Lane went to war. Well, the day after
his return he called on us. And if I never liked him before I liked
him then. He's come back to die! He was ill for two weeks--and then he
crawled out of bed again. I met him down town one day. He really
looked better, and told me with a sad smile that he had 'his ups and
downs'.... No, Lane wasn't drunk at Fanchon Smith's dance the other
night. I was there, and I was with Mrs. Smith when Lane came up to us.
If ever I saw a cool, smooth, handsome devil it was Lane.... Well, he
said what he said. I thought Mrs. Smith would faint. It is my idea
Lane had a deep motive back of his remark about Fanchon's dress and
her dancing. The fact is Lane was _sick_ at what he saw--sick and
angry. And he wanted Fanchon's mother and me to know what he
thought."

"It was an insult," declared Mrs. Maynard, vehemently.

"It made Mrs. Smith ill," added Mrs. Kingsley. "She told me Fanchon
tormented the life out of her, trying to learn what Lane said. Mrs.
Smith would not tell. But Fanchon came to me and _I_ told her. Such a
perfectly furious girl! She'll not wear _that_ dress or dance _that_
dance very soon again. The story is all over town."

"Friends, there are two sides to every question," interposed the
forceful Mrs. Wrapp. "If Lane cared to be popular he would have used
more tact. But I don't think his remark was an insult. It was pretty
raw, I admit. But the dress was indecent and the dance was rotten.
Helen told me Fanchon was half shot. So how could she be insulted?"

Mrs. Maynard and Mrs. Kingsley, as usual, received Mrs. Wrapp's
caustic and rather crude opinions with as good grace as they could
muster. Plain it was that they felt themselves a shade removed from
this younger and newer member of society. But they could not show
direct antagonism to her influence any more than they could understand
the common sense and justice of her arguments.

"No one will ever invite him again," declared Mrs. Maynard.

"He's done in Middleville," echoed Mrs. Kingsley. And that perhaps was
a gauntlet thrown.

"Rot!" exclaimed Mrs. Wrapp, with more force than elegance. "I'll
invite Daren Lane to my house.... You women don't get the point.
Daren Lane is a soldier come home to die. He gave himself. And he
returns to find all--all this sickening--oh, what shall I call it?
What does he care whether or not we invite him? Can't you see that?"

"There's a good deal in what you say," return