Lane's intentions and his spirit were too great for his endurance. It
was some time before he got downtown again. And upon entering the inn
he was told some one had just called him on the telephone.
"Hello, this is Lane," he answered. "Who called me?"
"It's Blair," came the reply. "How are you, old top?"
"Not so well. I've been down and out."
"Sorry. Suppose that's why you haven't called me up for so long?"
"Well, Buddy, I can't lay it all to that.... And how're you?"
The answer did not come. So Lane repeated his query.
"Well, I'm still hobbling round on one leg," replied Blair.
"That's good. Tell me about Reddie."
Again the reply was long in coming....
"Haven't you heard--about Red?"
"No."
"Haven't seen the newspapers lately?"
"I never read the papers, Blair."
"Right-o. But I had to.... Buck up, now, Dare!"
"All right. Shoot it quick," returned Lane, feeling his breast
contract and his skin tighten with a chill.
"Red Payson has gone west."
"Blair! You don't mean--dead?" exclaimed Lane.
"Yes, Reddie's gone--and I guess it's just as well, poor devil!"
"How? When?"
"Two days ago, according to papers.... He died in Washington, D.C.
Fell down in the vestibule of one of the government offices--where he
was waiting.... fell with another hemorrhage--and died right there--on
the floor--quick."
"My--God!" gasped Lane.
"Yes, it's tough. You see, Dare, I couldn't keep Reddie here. Heaven
knows I tried, but he wouldn't stay.... I'm afraid he heard my mother
complaining. Say, Dare, suppose I have somebody drive me in town to
see you."
"I'd like that, Blair."
"You're on. And say, I've another idea. To-night's the Junior Prom--did
you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"Well, it is. Suppose we go up? My sister can get me cards.... I tell
you, Dare, I'd like to see what's going on in that bunch. I've heard a
lot and seen some things."
"Did you hear how I mussed up Fanchon Smith's party?"
"You bet I did. That's one reason I want to see some of this dancing.
Will you go?"
"Yes, I can stand it if you can."
"All right, Buddy, I'll meet you at the inn--eight o'clock."
Lane slowly made his way to a secluded corner of the lobby, where he
sat down. Red Payson dead! Lane felt that he should not have been
surprised or shocked. But he was both. The strange, cold sensation
gradually wore away and with it the slight trembling of his limbs. A
mournful procession of thoughts and images returned to his mind and he
sat and brooded.
At the hour of his appointment with his friend, Lane went to the front
of the lobby. Blair was on time. He hobbled in, erect and martial of
bearing despite the crutch, and his dark citizen's suit emphasized the
whiteness of his face. Being home had softened Blair a little. Yet the
pride and tragic bitterness were there. But when Blair espied Lane a
warmth burned out of the havoc in his face. Lane's conscience gave him
a twinge. It dawned upon him that neither his spells of illness, nor
his distress over his sister Lorna, nor his obsession to see and
understand what the young people were doing could hold him wholly
excusable for having neglected his comrade.
Their hand-clasp was close, almost fierce, and neither spoke at once.
But they looked intently into each other's faces. Emotion stormed
Lane's heart. He realized that Blair loved him and that he loved
Blair--and that between them was a measureless bond, a something only
separation could make tangible. But little of what they felt came out
in their greetings.
"Dare, why the devil don't you can that uniform," demanded Blair,
cheerfully. "People might recognize you've been 'over there.'"
"Well, Blair, I expected you'd have a cork leg by this time," said
Lane.
"Nothing doing," returned the other. "I want to be perpetually
reminded that I was in the war. This 'forget the war' propaganda we
see and hear all over acts kind of queer on a soldier.... Let's find a
bench away from these people."
After they were comfortably seated Blair went on: "Do you know, Dare,
I don't miss my leg so much when I'm crutching around. But when I try
to sit down or get up! By heck, sometimes I forget it's gone. And
sometimes I want to scratch my lost foot. Isn't that hell?"
"I'll say so, Buddy," returned Lane, with a laugh.
"Read this," said Blair, taking a paper from his pocket, and
indicating a column.
Whereupon Lane read a brief Associated Press dispatch from Washington,
D.C., stating that one Payson, disabled soldier of twenty-five,
suffering with tuberculosis caused by gassed lungs, had come to
Washington to make in person a protest and appeal that had been
unanswered in letters. He wanted money from the government to enable
him to travel west to a dry climate, where doctors assured him he
might get well. He made his statement to several clerks and officials,
and waited all day in the vestibule of the department. Suddenly he was
seized with a hemorrhage, and, falling on the floor, died before aid
could be summoned.
Without a word Lane handed the paper back to his friend.
"Red was a queer duck," said Blair, rather hoarsely. "You remember
when I 'phoned you last over two weeks ago?... Well, just after that
Red got bad on my hands. He wouldn't accept charity, he said. And he
wanted to beat it. He got wise to my mother. He wouldn't give up
trying to get money from the government--back money owed him, he
swore--and the idea of being turned down at home seemed to obsess him.
I talked and cussed myself weak. No good! Red beat it soon after
that--beat it from Middleville on a freight train. And I never heard a
word from him.... Not a word...."
"Blair, can't you see it Red's way?" queried Lane, sadly.
"Yes, I can," responded Blair, "but hell! he might have gotten well.
Doc Bronson said Red had a chance. I could have borrowed enough money
to get him out west. Red wouldn't take it."
"And he ran off--exposed himself to cold and starvation--over-exertion
and anger," added Lane.
"Exactly. Brought on that hemorrhage and croaked. All for nothing!"
"No, Blair. All for a principle," observed Lane. "Red was fired out of
the hospital without a dollar. There was something terribly wrong."
"Wrong?... God Almighty!" burst out Blair, with hard passion. "Let me
read you something in this same paper." With shaking hands he unfolded
it, searched until he found what he wanted, and began to read:
"'If the _actual_ needs of disabled veterans require the expenditure
of much money, then unquestionably a majority of the taxpayers of the
country will favor spending it. Despite the insistent demand for
economy in Washington that is arising from every part of the country,
no member of House or Senate will have occasion to fear that he is
running counter to popular opinion when eventually he votes to take
generous care of disabled soldiers.'"
Blair's trembling voice ceased, and then twisting the newspaper into a
rope, he turned to Lane. "Dare, can you understand that?... Red Payson
was a bull-headed boy, not over bright. But you and I have some
intelligence, I hope. We can allow for the immense confusion at
Washington--the senselessness of red tape--the callosity of
politicians. But when we remember the eloquent calls to us boys--the
wonderfully worded appeals to our patriotism, love of country and
home--the painted posters bearing the picture of a beautiful American
girl--or a young mother with a baby--remembering these deep,
passionate calls to the best in us, can you understand _that_ sort of
talk now?"
"Blair, I think I can," replied Lane. "Then--before and after the
draft--the whole country was at a white heat of all that the approach
of war rouses. Fear, self-preservation, love of country, hate of the
Huns, inspired patriotism, and in most everybody the will to fight and
to sacrifice.... The war was a long, hideous, soul-racking,
nerve-destroying time. When it ended, and the wild period of joy and
relief had its run, then all that pertained to the war sickened and
wearied and disgusted the majority of people. It's 'forget the war.'
You and Payson and I got home a year too late."
"Then--it's just--monstrous," said Blair, heavily.
"That's all, Blair. Just monstrous. But we can't beat our spirits out
against this wall. No one can understand us--how alone we are. Let's
forget _that_--this wall--this thing called government. Shall we spend
what time we have to live always in a thunderous atmosphere of
mind--hating, pondering, bitter?"
"No. I'll make a compact with you," returned Blair, with flashing
eyes. "Never to speak again of _that_--so long as we live!"
"Never to a living soul," rejoined Lane, with a ring in his voice.
They shook hands much the same as when they had met half an hour
earlier.
"So!" exclaimed Blair, with a deep breath. "And now, Dare, tell me how
you made out with Helen. You cut me short over the 'phone."
"Blair, that day coming into New York on the ship, you didn't put it
half strong enough," replied Lane. Then he told Blair about the call
he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio.
Blair did not voice the scorn that his eyes expressed. And, in fact,
most of his talking was confined to asking questions. Lane found it
easy enough to unburden himself, though he did not mention his calls
on Mel Iden, or Colonel Pepper's disclosures.
"Well, I guess it's high time we were meandering up to the hall," said
Blair, consulting his watch. "I'm curious about this Prom. Think we're
in for a jolt. It's four years since I went to a Prom. Now, both of
us, Dare, have a sister who'll be there, besides all our old
friends.... And we're not dancing! But I want to look on. They've got
an out-of-town orchestra coming--a jazz orchestra. There'll probably
be a hot time in the old town to-night."
"Lorna did not tell me," replied Lane, as they got up to go. "But I
suppose she'd rather I didn't know. We've clashed a good deal lately."
"Dare, I hear lots of talk," said Blair. "Margaret is chummy with me,
and some of her friends are always out at the house. I hear Dick Swann
is rushing Lorna. Think he's doing it on the q-t."
"I know he is, Blair, but I can't catch them together," returned Lane.
"Lorna is working now. Swann got her the job."
"Looks bad to me," replied Blair, soberly. "Swann is cutting a swath.
I hear his old man is sore on him.... I'd take Lorna out of that
office quick."
"Maybe you would," declared Lane, grimly. "For all the influence or
power I have over Lorna I might as well not exist."
They walked silently along the street for a little while. Lane had to
accommodate his step to the slower movement of his crippled friend.
Blair's crutch tapped over the stone pavement and clicked over the
curbs. They crossed the railroad tracks and turned off the main street
to go down a couple of blocks.
"Shades of the past!" exclaimed Blair, as they reached a big brick
building, well-lighted in front by a sizzling electric lamp. The night
was rather warm and clouds of insects were wheeling round the light.
"The moths and the flame!" added Blair, satirically. "Well, Dare, old
bunkie, brace up and we'll go over the top. This ought to be fun for
us."
"I don't see it," replied Lane. "I'll be about as welcome as a bull in
a china shop."
"Oh, I didn't mean any one would throw fits over us," responded Blair.
"But we ought to get some fun out of the fact."
"What fact?" queried Lane, puzzled.
"Rather far-fetched, maybe. But I'll get a kick out of looking
on--watching these swell slackers with the girls _we_ fought for."
"Wonder why they didn't give the dance at the armory, where they'd not
have to climb stairs, and have more room?" queried Lane, as they went
in under the big light.
"Dare, you're far back in the past," said Blair, sardonically. "The
armory is on the ground floor--one big hall--open, you know. The
Assembly Hall is a regular maze for rooms and stairways."
Blair labored up the stairway with Lane's help. At last they reached
the floor from which had blared the strains of jazz. Wide doors were
open, through which Lane caught the flash of many colors. Blair
produced his tickets at the door. There did not appear to be any one
to take them.
Lane experienced an indefinable thrill at the scene. The air seemed to
reek with a mixed perfume and cigarette smoke--to resound with
high-keyed youthful laughter, wild and sweet and vacant above the
strange, discordant music. Then the flashing, changing, whirling
colors of the dancers struck Lane as oriental, erotic,
bizarre--gorgeous golds and greens and reds striped by the
conventional black. Suddenly the blare ceased, and the shrill,
trilling laughter had dominance. The rapid circling of forms came to a
sudden stop, and the dancers streamed in all directions over the
floor.
"Dare, they've called time," said Blair. "Let's get inside the ropes
so we can see better."
The hall was not large, but it was long, and shaped like a letter L
with pillars running down the center. Countless threads of
many-colored strings of paper had been stretched from pillars to
walls, hanging down almost within reach of the dancers. Flags and gay
bunting helped in the riotous effect of decoration. The black-faced
orchestra held forth on a raised platform at the point where the hall
looked two ways. Recesses, alcoves and open doors to other rooms,
which the young couples were piling over each other to reach, gave
Lane some inkling of what Blair had hinted.
"Now we're out in the limelight," announced Blair, as he halted.
"Let's stand here and run the gauntlet until the next dance--then we
can find seats."
Almost at once a stream of gay couples enveloped them in passing.
Bright, flashing, vivid faces and bare shoulders, arms and breasts
appeared above the short bodices of the girls. Few of them were gowned
in white. The colors seemed too garish for anything but musical
comedy. But the freshness, the vividness of these girls seemed
exhilarating. The murmur, the merriment touched a forgotten chord in
Lane's heart. For a moment it seemed sweet to be there, once more in a
gathering where pleasure was the pursuit. It breathed of what seemed
long ago, in a past that was infinitely more precious to remember
because he had no future of hope or of ambition or dream. Something
had happened to him that now made the sensations of the moment
stingingly bitter-sweet. The freshness and fragrance, the color and
excitement, the beauty and gayety were not for him. Youth was dead. He
could never enter the lists with these young men, many no younger than
he, for the favor and smile of a girl. Resignation had not been so
difficult in the spiritual moment of realization and resolve, but to
be presented with one concrete and stunning actuality after another,
each with its mocking might-have-been, had grown to be a terrible
ordeal.
Lane looked for faces he knew. On each side of the pillar where he and
Blair stood the stream of color and gayety flowed. Helen and Margaret
Maynard went by on the far edge of that stream. Across the hall he
caught a glimpse of the flashing golden beauty of Bessy Bell. Then
near at hand he recognized Fanchon Smith, a petite, smug-faced little
brunette, with naked shoulders bulging out of a piebald gown. She
espied Lane and her face froze. Then there were familiar faces near
and far, to which Lane could not attach names.
All at once he became aware that other of his senses besides sight
were being stimulated. He had been hearing without distinguishing what
he heard. And curiously he listened, still with that strange knock of
memory at his heart. Everybody was talking, some low, some high, all
in the spirit of the hour. And in one moment he had heard that which
killed the false enchantment.
"Not a chance!..."
"Hot dog--she's some Jane!"
"Now to the clinch--"
"What'll we do till the next spiel--"
"Have a shot?----"
"Boys, it's only the shank of the evening. Leave something peppy for
the finish."
"Mame, you look like a million dollars in that rag."
"She shakes a mean shimmy, believe me...."
"That egg! Not on your life!"
"Cut the next with Ned. We'll sneak down and take a ride in my
car...."
"Oh, spiffy!"
Lane's acutely strained attention was diverted by Blair's voice.
"Look who's with my sister Margie."
Lane turned to look through an open space in the dispersing stream.
Blair's sister was passing with Dick Swann. Elegantly and fastidiously
attired, the young millionaire appeared to be attentive to his
partner. Margaret stood out rather strikingly from the other girls
near her by reason of the simplicity and modesty of her dress. She did
not look so much bored as discontented. Lane saw her eyes rove to and
fro from the entrance of the hall. When she espied Lane she nodded and
spoke with a smile and made an evident move toward him, but was
restrained by Swann. He led her past Lane and Blair without so much as
glancing in their direction. Lane heard Blair swear.
"Dare, if my mother throws Marg at that--slacker, I'll block the deal
if it's the last thing I ever do," he declared, violently.
"And I'll help you," replied Lane, instantly.
"I know Margie hates him."
"Blair, your sister is in love with Holt Dalrymple."
"No! Not really? Thought that was only a boy-and-girl affair.... Aha!
the nigger music again! Let's find a seat, Dare."
Saxophone, trombone, piccolo, snare-drum and other barbaric
instruments opened with a brazen defiance of music, and a vibrant
assurance of quick, raw, strong sounds. Lane himself felt the stirring
effect upon his nerves. He had difficulty in keeping still. From the
lines of chairs along the walls and from doors and alcoves rushed the
gay-colored throng to leap, to close, to step, to rock and sway, until
the floor was full of a moving mass of life.
The first half-dozen couples Lane studied all danced more or less as
Helen and Swann had, that day in Helen's studio. Then, by way of a
remarkable contrast, there passed two young people who danced
decently. Lane descried his sister Lorna in the throng, and when she
and her partner came round in the giddy circle, Lane saw that she
wiggled and toddled like the others. Lane, as she passed him, caught a
glance of her eyes, flashing, reproachful, furious, directed at some
one across her partner's shoulder. Lane followed that glance and saw
Swann. Apparently he did not notice Lorna, and was absorbed in the
dance with his own partner, Helen Wrapp. This byplay further excited
Lane's curiosity. On the whole, it was an ungraceful, violent mob,
almost totally lacking in restraint, whirling, kicking, swaying,
clasping, instinctively physical, crude, vulgar and wild. Down the
line of chairs from his position, Lane saw the chaperones of the Prom,
no doubt mothers of some of these girls. Lane wondered at them with
sincere and persistent amaze. If they were respectable, and had even
a slight degree of intelligence, how could they look on at this dance
with complacence? Perhaps after all the young people were not wholly
to blame for an abnormal expression of instinctive action.
That dance had its several encores and finally ended.
Margaret and Holt made their way up to Lane and Blair. The girl was
now radiant. It took no second glance for Lane to see how matters
stood with her at that moment.
"Say, beat it, you two," suddenly spoke up Blair. "There comes Swann.
He's looking for you. Chase yourselves, now, Marg--Holt. Leave that
slacker to _us_!"
Margaret gave a start, a gasp. She looked hard at her brother. Blair
wore a cool smile, underneath which there was sterner hidden meaning.
Then Margaret looked at Lane with slow, deep blush, making her really
beautiful.
"Margie, we're for you two, strong," said Lane, with a smile. "Go hide
from Swann."
"But I--I came with him," she faltered.
"Then let him find you--in other words, let him _get_ you.... 'All's
fair in love and war.'"
Lane had his reward in the sweet amaze and confusion of her face, as
she turned away. Holt rushed her off amid the straggling couples.
"Dare, you're a wiz," declared Blair. "Margie's strong for Holt--I'm
glad. If we could only put Swann out of the running."
"It's a cinch," returned Lane, with sudden heat.
"Pard, you don't know my mother. If she has picked out Swann for
Margie--all I've got to say is--good night!"
"Even if we prove Swann----"
"No matter what we prove," interrupted Blair. "No matter what, so long
as he's out of jail. My mother is money mad. She'd sell Margie to the
devil himself for gold, position--the means to queen it over these
other mothers of girls."
"Blair, you're--you're a little off your nut, aren't you?"
"Not on your life. That talk four years ago might have been
irrational. But now--not on your life.... The world has come to an
end.... Oh, Lord, look who's coming! Lane, did you ever in your life
see such a peach as that?"
Bessy Bell had appeared, coming toward them with a callow youth near
her own age. Her dress was some soft, pale blue material that was
neither gaudy nor fantastical. But it was far from modest. Lane had to
echo Blair's eulogy of this young specimen of the new America. She
simply verified and stabilized the assertion that physically the newer
generations of girls were markedly more beautiful than those of any
generation before.
Bessy either forgot to introduce her escort or did not care to. She
nodded a dismissal to him, spoke sweetly to Blair, and then took the
empty chair next to Lane.
"You're having a rotten time," she said, leaning close to him. She
seemed all fragrance and airy grace and impelling life.
Lane had to smile. "How do you know?"
"I can tell by your face. Now aren't you?"
"Well, to be honest, Miss Bessy"
"For tripe's sake, don't be so formal," she interrupted. "Call me
Bessy."
"Oh, very well, Bessy. There's no use to lie to you. I'm not very
happy at what I see here."
"What's the matter with it--with us?" she queried, quickly.
"Everybody's doing it."
"That is no excuse. Besides, that's not so. Everybody is not--not----"
"Well, not what?"
"Not doing it, whatever you meant by that," returned Lane, with a
laugh.
"Tell me straight out what _you_ think of us," she shot at Lane, with
a purple flash of her eyes.
She irritated Lane. Stirred him somehow, yet she seemed wholesome,
full of quick response. She was daring, sophisticated, provocative.
Therefore Lane retorted in brief, blunt speech what he thought of the
majority of the girls present.
Bessy Bell did not look insulted. She did not blush. She did not show
shame. Her eyes darkened. Her rosy mouth lost something of its soft
curves.
"Daren Lane, we're not all rotten," she said.
"I did not say or imply you _all_ were," he replied.
She gazed up at him thoughtfully, earnestly, with an unconscious frank
interest, curiosity, and reverence.
"You strike me funny," she mused. "I never met a soldier like you."
"Bessy, how many soldiers have you met who have come back from
France?"
"Not many, only Blair and you, and Captain Thesel, though I really
didn't meet him. He came up to me at the armory and spoke to me. And
to-night he cut in on Roy's dance. Roy was sore."
"Three. Well, that's not many," replied Lane. "Not enough to get a
line on two million, is it?"
"Captain Thesel is just like all the other fellows.... But you're not
a bit like them."
"Is that a compliment or otherwise?"
"I'll say it's a compliment," she replied, with arch eyes on his.
"Thank you."
"Well, you don't deserve it.... You promised to make a date with me.
Why haven't you?"
"Why child, I--I don't know what to say," returned Lane, utterly
disconcerted. Yet he liked this amazing girl. "I suppose I forgot. But
I've been ill, for one reason."
"I'm sorry," she said, giving his arm a squeeze. "I heard you were
badly hurt. Won't you tell me about your--your hurts?"
"Some day, if opportunity affords. I can't here, that's certain."
"Opportunity! What do you want? Haven't I handed myself out on a
silver platter?"
Lane could find no ready retort for this query. He gazed at her,
marveling at the apparently measureless distance between her exquisite
physical beauty and the spiritual beauty that should have been
harmonious with it. Still he felt baffled by this young girl. She
seemed to resemble Lorna, yet was different in a way he could not
grasp. Lorna had coarsened in fibre. This girl was fine, despite her
coarse speech. She did not repel.
"Mr. Lane, will you dance with me?" she asked, almost wistfully. She
liked him, and was not ashamed of it. But she seemed pondering over
what to make of him--how far to go.
"Bessy, I dare not exert myself to that extent," he replied, gently.
"You forget I am a disabled soldier."
"Forget that? Not a chance," she flashed. "But I hoped you might dance
with me once--just a little."
"No. I might keel over."
She shivered and her eyes dilated. "You mean it as a joke. But it's no
joke.... I read about your comrade--that poor Red Payson!" ... Then
both devil of humor and woman of fire shone in her glance. "Daren, if
you _did_ keel over--you'd die in my arms--not on the floor!"
Then another partner came up to claim her. As the orchestra blurted
forth and Bessy leaned to the dancer's clasp she shouted audaciously
at Lane: "Don't forget that silver platter!"
Lane turned to Blair to find that worthy shaking his handsome head.
"Did you hear what she said?" asked Lane, close to Blair's ear.
"Every word," replied Blair. "Some kid!... She's like the girl in the
motion-pictures. She comes along. She meets the fellow. She looks at
him--she says 'good day'--then _Wham_, into his arms.... My God!...
Lane, is that kid good or bad?"
"Good!" exclaimed Lane, instantly.
"Bah!"
"Good--still," returned Lane. "But alas! She is brazen, unconscious of
it. But she's no fool, that kid. Lorna is an absolute silly
bull-headed fool. I wish Bessy Bell was my sister--or I mean that
Lorna was like her."
"Here comes Swann without Margie. Looks sore as a pup. The----"
"Shut up, Blair. I want to listen to this jazz."
Lane shut his eyes during the next number and listened without the
disconcerting spectacle in his sight. He put all the intensity of
which he was capable into his attention. His knowledge of music was
not extensive, but on the other hand it was enough to enable him to
analyze this jazz. Neither music nor ragtime, it seemed utterly
barbarian in character. It appealed only to primitive, physical,
sensual instincts. It could not be danced to sanely and gracefully.
When he opened his eyes again, to see once more the disorder of
dancers in spirit and action, he seemed to have his analysis
absolutely verified.
These dances were short, the encores very brief, and the intermissions
long. Perhaps the dancers needed to get their breath and rearrange
their apparel.
After this number, Lane left Blair talking to friends, and made his
way across the hall to where he espied Lorna. She did not see him. She
looked ashamed, hurt, almost sullen. Her young friend, Harry, was
bending over talking earnestly. Lane caught the words: "Lorna dear,
that Swann's only stringing you--rushing you on the sly. He won't
dance with you _here_--not while he's with that swell crowd."
"It's a lie," burst out Lorna. She was almost in tears.
Lane took her arm, making her start.
"Well, kids, you're having some time, aren't you," he said,
cheerfully.
"Sure--are," gulped Harry.
Lorna repressed her grief, but not her sullen resentment.
Lane pretended not to notice anything unusual, and after a few casual
remarks and queries he left them. Strolling from place to place,
mingling with the gay groups, in the more secluded alcoves and
recesses where couples appeared, oblivious to eyes, in the check room
where a sign read: "check your corsets," out in the wide landing where
the stairway came up, Lane passed, missing little that might have been
seen or heard. He did not mind that two of the chaperones stared at
him in supercilious curiosity, as if speculating on a possible _faux
pas_ of his at this dance. Both boys and girls he had met since his
return to Middleville, and some he had known before, encountered him
face to face, and cut him dead. He heard sarcastic remarks. He was an
outsider, a "dead one," a "has been" and a "lemon." But Margaret was
gracious to him, and Flossie Dickerson made no bones of her regard.
Dorothy, he was relieved and glad to see, was not present.
Lane had no particular object in mind. He just wanted to rub elbows
with this throng of young people. This was the joy of life he had
imagined he had missed while in France. How much vain longing! He had
missed nothing. He had boundlessly gained.
Out on this floor a railing ran round the curve of the stairway. Girls
were sitting on it, smoking cigarettes, and kicking their slipper-shod
feet. Their partners were lounging close. Lane passed by, and walking
to a window in the shadow he stood there. Presently one of the boys
threw away his cigarette and said: "Come on, Ironsides. I gotta dance.
You're a rotten dancer, but I love you."
They ran back into the hall. The young fellow who was left indolently
attempted to kiss his partner, who blew smoke in his face. Then at a
louder blast of jazz they bounced away. The next moment a third couple
appeared, probably from another door down the hall. They did not
observe Lane. The girl was slim, dainty, gorgeously arrayed, and her
keen, fair face bore traces of paint wet by perspiration. Her
companion was Captain Vane Thesel, in citizen's garb, well-built,
ruddy-faced, with tiny curled moustache.
"Hurry, kid," he said, breathlessly, as he pulled at her. "We'll run
down and take a spin."
"Spiffy! But let's wait till after the next," she replied. "It's
Harold's and I came with him."
"Tell him it was up to him to find you."
"But he might get wise to a car ride."
"He'd do the same. Come on," returned Thesel, who all the time was
leading her down the stairway step by step.
They disappeared. From the open window Lane saw them go down the
street and get into a car and ride away. He glanced at his watch,
muttering. "This is a new stunt for dances. I just wonder." He
watched, broodingly and sombrely. It was not his sister, but it might
just as well have been. Two dances and a long intermission ended
before Lane saw the big auto return. He watched the couple get out,
and hurry up, to disappear at the entrance. Then Lane changed his
position, and stood directly at the head of the stairway under the
light. He had no interest in Captain Vane Thesel. He just wanted to
get a close look at the girl.
Presently he heard steps, heavy and light, and a man's deep voice, a
girl's low thrill of laughter. They turned the curve in the stairway
and did not see Lane until they had mounted to the top.
With cool steady gaze Lane studied the girl. Her clear eyes met his.
If there was anything unmistakable in Lane's look at her, it was not
from any deception on his part. He tried to look into her soul. Her
smile--a strange indolent little smile, remnant of excitement--faded
from her face. She stared, and she put an instinctive hand up to her
somewhat dishevelled hair. Then she passed on with her companion.
"Of all the nerve!" she exclaimed. "Who's that soldier boob?"
Lane could not catch the low reply. He lingered there a while longer,
and then returned to the hall, much surprised to find it so dark he
could scarcely distinguish the dancers. The lights had been lowered.
If the dance had been violent and strange before this procedure, it
was now a riot. In the semi-darkness the dancers cut loose. The paper
strings had been loosened and had fallen down to become tangled with
the flying feet and legs. Confetti swarmed like dark snowdrops in the
hot air. Lane actually smelled the heat of bodies--a strangely
stirring and yet noxious sensation. A rushing, murmuring, shrill
sound--voices, laughter, cries, and the sliding of feet and brushing
of gowns--filled the hall--ominous to Lane's over-sensitive faculties,
swelling unnaturally, the expression of unrestrained physical abandon.
Lane walked along the edge of this circling, wrestling melee, down to
the corner where the orchestra held forth. They seemed actuated by the
same frenzy which possessed the dancers. The piccolo player lay on his
back on top of the piano, piping his shrill notes at the ceiling. And
Lane made sure this player was drunk. On the moment then the jazz came
to an end with a crash. The lights flashed up. The dancers clapped and
stamped their pleasure.
Lane wound his way back to Blair.
"I've had enough, Blair," he said. "I'm all in. Let's go."
"Right-o," replied Blair, with evident relief. He reached a hand to
Lane to raise himself, an action he rarely resorted to, and awkwardly
got his crutch in place. They started out, with Lane accommodating his
pace to his crippled comrade. Thus it happened that the two ran a
gauntlet with watching young people on each side, out to the open part
of the hall. There directly in front they encountered Captain Vane
Thesel, with Helen Wrapp on his arm. Her red hair, her green eyes, and
carmined lips, the white of her voluptuous neck and arms, united in a
singular effect of allurement that Lane felt with scorn and
melancholy.
Helen nodded to Blair and Lane, and evidently dragged at her escort's
arm to hold him from passing on.
"Look who's here! Daren, old boy--and Blair," she called, and she
held the officer back. The malice in her green glance did not escape
Lane, as he bowed to her. She gloried in that situation. Captain
Thesel had to face them.
It was Blair's hand that stiffened Lane. They halted, erect, like
statues, with eyes that failed to see Thesel. He did not exist for
them. With a flush of annoyance he spoke, and breaking from Helen,
passed on. A sudden silence in the groups nearby gave evidence that
the incident had been observed. Then whispers rose.
"Boys, aren't you dancing?" asked Helen, with a mocking sweetness.
"Let me teach you the new steps."
"Thanks, Helen," replied Lane, in sudden weariness. "But I couldn't go
it."
"Why did you come? To blow us up again? Lose your nerve?"
"Yes, I lost it to-night--and something more."
"Blair, you shouldn't have left one of your legs in France," she said,
turning to Blair. She had always hated Blair, a fact omnipresent now
in her green eyes.
Blair had left courtesy and endurance in France, as was evinced by the
way he bent closer to Helen, to speak low, with terrible passion.
"If I had it to do over again--I'd see _you_ and _your_ kind--your
dirt-cheap crowd of painted hussies where you belong--in the clutch of
the Huns!"