Helen Wrapp in the arms of Swann, and he realized, whatever had been the state of his heart on his return home, he did not love her now.  Even if the war had not disrupted his mind in an unaccountable way, even if he had loved Helen Wrapp right up to that moment, such singular abandonment to a distorted strange music, to the close and unmistakably sensual embrace of a man—­that spectacle would have killed his love.

Lane turned his gaze away.  The young fellow Vancey was pulling at Bessy Bell, and she shook his hand off.  “No, Roy, I don’t want to dance.”  Lane heard above the jarring, stringing notes.  Mackay was smoking, and looked on as if bored.  In a moment more the Victrola rasped out its last note.

Helen’s face was flushed and moist.  Her bosom heaved.  Her gown hung closely to her lissom and rather full form.  A singular expression of excitement, of titillation, almost wild, a softer expression almost dreamy, died out of her face.  Lane saw Swann lead Helen up to a small table 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“Lane, you’re out of date,” said Swann, with a little sneer.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.”