“Of course Dick Swann was in the service?” he asked.

“No.  He didn’t go,” replied Lorna.

The information struck Lane singularly.  Dick Swann had always been a prominent figure in the Middleville battery, in those seemingly long past years since before the war.

“Why didn’t Dick go into the service?  Why didn’t the draft get him?”

“He had poor eyesight, and his father needed him at the iron works.”

“Poor eyesight!” ejaculated Lane.  “He was the best shot in the battery—­the best hunter among the boys.  Well, that’s funny.”

“Daren, there are people who called Dick Swann a slacker,” returned Lorna, as if forced to give this information.  “But I never saw that it hurt him.  He’s rich now.  His uncle left him a million, and his father will leave him another.  And I’ll say it’s the money people want these days.”

The materialism so pregnant in Lorna’s half bitter reply checked Lane’s further questioning.  He edged closer to the stove, feeling a little cold.  A shadow drifted across the warmth and glow of his mind.  At home now he was to be confronted with a monstrous and insupportable truth—­the craven cowardice of the man who had been eligible to service in army or navy, and who had evaded it.  In camp and trench and dug-out he had heard of the army of slackers.  And of all the vile and stark profanity which the war gave birth to on the lips of miserable and maimed soldiers, that flung on the slackers was the worst.

“I’ve got a date to go to the movies,” said Lorna, and she bounced out of the kitchen into the hall singing: 

“Oh by heck
You never saw a wreck
Like the wreck she made of me.”

She went upstairs, while Lane sat there trying to adapt himself to a new and unintelligible environment.  His mother began washing the dishes.  Lane felt her gaze upon his face, and he struggled against all the weaknesses that beset him.

“Mother, doesn’t Lorna help you with the house work?” he asked.

“She used to.  But not any more.”

“Do you let her go out at night to the movies—­dances, and all that?”

Mrs. Lane made a gesture of helplessness.  “Lorna goes out all the time.  She’s never here.  She stays out until midnight—­one o’clock—­later.  She’s popular with the boys.  I couldn’t stop her even if I wanted to.  Girls can’t be stopped these days.  I do all I can for her—­make her dresses—­slave for her—­hoping she’ll find a good husband.  But the young men are not marrying.”

“Good Heavens, are you already looking for a husband for Lorna?” broke out Lane.

“You don’t understand, Dare.  You’ve been away so long.  Wait till you’ve seen what girls—­are nowadays.  Then you’ll not wonder that I’d like to see Lorna settled.”

“Mother, you’re right,” he said, gravely.  “I’ve been away so—­long.  But I’m back home now.  I’ll soon get on to things.  And I’ll help you.  I’ll take Lorna in hand.  I’ll relieve you of a whole lot.”