The discordant music and the soft shuffling of feet ceased.  Laughter and murmur of voices began.

“Come, Daren,” whispered Mrs. Wrapp, as if thrilled.  Certainly her eyes gleamed.  Then quickly she threw the door open wide and called out: 

“Helen, here’s Daren Lane home from the war, wearing the Croix de Guerre.”

Mrs. Wrapp pushed Lane forward, and stood there a moment in the sudden silence, then stepping back, she went out and closed the door.

Lane saw a large well-lighted room, with colorful bizarre decorations and a bare shiny floor.  The first person his glance encountered was a young girl, strikingly beautiful, facing him with red lips parted.  She had violet eyes that seemed to have a startled expression as they met Lane’s.  Next Lane saw a slim young man standing close to this girl, in the act of withdrawing his arm from around her waist.  Apparently with his free hand he had either been lowering a smoking cigarette from her lips or had been raising it there.  This hand, too, dropped down.  Lane did not recognize the fellow’s smooth, smug face, with its tiny curled mustache and its heated swollen lines.

“Look who’s here,” shouted a gay, vibrant voice.  “If it isn’t old Dare Lane!”

That voice drew Lane’s fixed gaze, and he saw a group in the far corner of the room.  One man was standing, another was sitting beside a lounge, upon which lay a young woman amid a pile of pillows.  She rose lazily, and as she slid off the lounge Lane saw her skirt come down and cover her bare knees.  Her red hair, bobbed and curly, marked her for recognition.  It was Helen.  But Lane doubted if he would have at once recognized any other feature.  The handsome insolence of her face was belied by a singularly eager and curious expression.  Her eyes, almost green in line, swept Lane up and down, and came back to his face, while she extended her hands in greeting.

“Helen, how are you?” said Lane, with a cool intent mastery of himself, bowing over her hands.  “Surprised to see me?”

“Well, I’ll say so!  Daren, you’ve changed,” she replied, and the latter part of her speech flashed swiftly.

“Rather,” he said, laconically.  “What would you expect?  So have you changed.”

There came a moment’s pause.  Helen was not embarrassed or agitated, but something about Lane or the situation apparently made her slow or stiff.

“Daren, you—­of course you remember Hardy Mackay and Dick Swann,” she said.

Lane turned to greet one-time schoolmates and rivals of his.  Mackay was tall, homely, with a face that lacked force, light blue eyes and thick sandy hair, brushed high.  Swann was slight, elegant, faultlessly groomed and he had a dark, sallow face, heavy lips, heavy eyelids, eyes rather prominent and of a wine-dark hue.  To Lane he did not have a clean, virile look.

In their greetings Lane sensed some indefinable quality of surprise or suspense.  Swann rather awkwardly put out his hand, but Lane ignored it.  The blood stained Swann’s sallow face and he drew himself up.