LITMIR.BIZ

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beside the Victrola. Here stood a large pitcher of lemonade, and a number of glasses. Swann filled a glass half full, from the pitcher, and then, deliberately pulling a silver flask from his hip pocket he poured some of its dark red contents into the glass. Helen took it from him, and turned to Lane with a half-mocking glance.

      "Daren, I remember you never drank," she said. "Maybe the war made a man of you!... Will you have a sip of lemonade with a shot in it?"

      "No, thank you," replied Lane.

      "Didn't you drink over there?" she queried.

      "Only when I had to," he rejoined, shortly.

      All of the four dancers partook of a drink of lemonade, strengthened by something from Swann's flask. Lane was quick to observe that when it was pressed upon Bessy Bell she refused to take it: "I hate booze," she said, with a grimace. His further impression of Bessy Bell, then, was that she had just fallen in with this older crowd, and sophisticated though she was, had not yet been corrupted. The divination of this heightened his interest.

      "Well, Daren, you old prune, what'd you think of the toddle?" asked Helen, as she took a cigarette offered by Swann and tipped it between her red lips.

      "Is that what you danced?"

      "I'll say so. And Dick and I are considered pretty spiffy."

      "I don't think much of it, Helen," replied Lane, deliberately. "If you care to—to do that sort of thing I'd imagine you'd rather do it alone."

      "Oh Lord, you talk like mother," she exclaimed.

      "Lane, you're out of date," said Swann, with a little sneer.

      Lane took a long, steady glance at Swann, but did not reply.

      "Daren, everybody has been dancing jazz. It's the rage. The old dances were slow. The new ones have pep and snap."

      "So I see. They have more than that," returned Lane. "But pray, never mind me. I'm out of date. Go ahead and dance.... If you'd rather, I'll leave and call on you some other time."

      "No, you stay," she replied. "I'll chase this bunch pretty soon."

      "Well, you won't chase me. I'll go," spoke up Swann, sullenly, with a fling of his cigarette.

      "You needn't hurt yourself," returned Helen, sarcastically.

      "So long, people," said Swann to the others. But it was perfectly obvious that he did not include Lane. It was also obvious, at least to Lane, that Swann showed something of intolerance and mastery in the dark, sullen glance he bestowed upon Helen. She followed him across the room and out into the hall, from whence her guarded voice sounded unintelligibly. But Lane's keen ear, despite the starting of the Victrola, caught Swann's equally low, yet clearer reply. "You can't kid me. I'm on. You'll vamp Lane if he lets you. Go to it!"

      As Helen came back into the room Mackay ran for her, and locking her in the same embrace—even a tighter one than Swann's—he fell into the strange steps that had so shocked Lane. Moreover, he was manifestly a skilful dancer, and showed the thin, lithe, supple body of one trained down by this or some other violent exercise.

      Lane did not watch the dancers this time. Again Bessy Bell refused to get up from the lounge. The youth was insistent. He pawed at her. And manifestly she did not like that, for her face flamed, and she snapped: "Stop it—you bonehead! Can't you see I want to sit here by Mr. Lane?"

      The youth slouched away fuming to himself.

      Whereupon Lane got up, and seated himself beside Bessy so that he need not shout to be heard.

      "That was nice of you, Miss Bell—but rather hard on the youngster," said Lane.

      "He makes me sick. All he wants to do is lolly-gag.... Besides, after what you said to Helen about the jazz I wouldn't dance in front of you on a bet."

      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 challenge, affected him powerfully, but he had no thrill.

      "Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked.

      "Helen, why didn't you write me you had broken our engagement?" he counter-queried.

      The question disconcerted her somewhat. Drawing back from close contact with him she took hold of his sleeves, and assumed a naive air of groping in memory. She used her eyes in a way that Lane could not associate with the past he knew. She was a flirt—not above trying her arts on the man she had jilted.

      "Why, didn't I write you? Of course I did."

      "Well, if you did I never got the letter. And if you were on the level you'd admit you never wrote."

      "How'd you find out then?" she inquired curiously.

      "I never knew for sure until your mother verified it."

      "Are you curious to know why I did break it off?"

      "Not in the least."

      This reply shot the fire into her face, yet she still persisted in the expression of her sentimental motive. She began to finger the medal on his breast.

      "So, Mr. Soldier Hero, you didn't care?"

      "No—not after I had been here ten minutes," he replied, bluntly.

      She whirled from him, swiftly, her body instinct with passion, her expression one of surprise and fury.

      "What do you mean by that?"

      "Nothing I care to explain, except I discovered my love for you was dead—perhaps had been dead for a long time."

      "But you never discovered it until you saw me—here—with Swann—dancing,

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