“And Daren, here are other friends of mine,” said Helen, and she turned him round.  “Bessy, this is Daren Lane....  Miss Bessy Bell.”  As Lane acknowledged the introduction he felt that he was looking at the prettiest girl he had ever seen—­the girl whose violet eyes had met his when he entered the room.

“Mr. Daren Lane, I’m very happy to meet some one from ‘over there,’” she said, with the ease and self-possession of a woman of the world.  But when she smiled a beautiful, wonderful light seemed to shine from eyes and face and lips—­a smile of youth.

Helen introduced her companion 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!”