n as Roy Vancey. Then she led Lane to the
far corner, to another couple, manifestly disturbed from their rather
close and familiar position in a window seat. These also were
strangers to Lane. They did not get up, and they were not interested.
In fact, Lane was quick to catch an impression from all, possibly
excepting Miss Bell, that the courtesy of drawing rooms, such as he
had been familiar with as a young man, was wanting in this atmosphere.
Lane wondered if it was antagonism toward him. Helen drew Lane back
toward her other friends, to the lounge where she seated herself. If
the situation had disturbed her equilibrium in the least, the moment
had passed. She did not care what Lane thought of her guests or what
they thought of him. But she seemed curious about him. Bessy Bell came
and sat beside her, watching Lane.

"Daren, do you dance?" queried Helen. "You used to be good. But
dancing is not the same. It's all fox-trot, toddle, shimmy nowadays."

"I'm afraid my dancing days are over," replied Lane.

"How so? I see you came back with two legs and arms."

"Yes. But I was shot twice through one leg--it's about all I can do to
walk now."

Following his easy laugh, a little silence ensued. Helen's green eyes
seemed to narrow and concentrate on Lane. Dick Swann inhaled a deep
draught of his cigarette, then let the smoke curl up from his lips to
enter his nostrils. Mackay rather uneasily shifted his feet. And Bessy
Bell gazed with wonderful violet eyes at Lane.

"Oh! You were _shot_!" she whispered.

"Yes," replied Lane, and looked directly at her, prompted by her
singular tone. A glance was enough to show Lane that this very young
girl was an entirely new type to him. She seemed to vibrate with
intensity. All the graceful lines of her body seemed strangely
instinct with pulsing life. She was bottled lightning. In a flash Lane
sensed what made her different from the fifteen-year-olds he
remembered before the war. It was what made his sister Lorna
different. He felt it in Helen's scrutiny of him, in the speculation
of her eyes. Then Bessy Bell leaned toward Lane, and softly,
reverently touched the medal upon his breast.

"The _Croix de Guerre_," she said, in awe. "That's the French badge of
honor.... It means you must have done something great.... You must
have--_killed_ Germans!"

Bessy sank back upon the lounge, clasping her hands, and her eyes
appeared to darken, to turn purple with quickening thought and
em