“They’re all stuck on Bessy,” said Helen.

Margaret squealed in delight.  “Girls, look here.  Valentines!  Did you ever?...  Look at them....  And what’s this?...  ’Wonders of Nature—­composition by Margaret Maynard.’  Heavens!  Did I write that?  And what’s this sear and yellow document?”

A slivery peal of laughter burst from Margaret.

“Dal, here’s one of your masterpieces, composed when you were thirteen, and mooney over Daren Lane.”

“I?  Never!  I didn’t write it,” denied Dorothy, with color in her dark cheeks.

“Yes you did.  It’s signed—­’Yours forever Dot Dalrymple.’ ...  Besides I remember now Daren gave it to me.  Said he wanted to prove he could have other girls if he couldn’t have me.”

“How chivalrous!” exclaimed Dorothy, joining in the laugh.

“Ah! here’s what I’ve been hunting,” declared Margaret, waving aloft a small picture.  “It’s a photograph of Holt, taken five years ago.  Only the other evening he swore I hadn’t kept it—­dared me to produce it.  He’ll want it now—­for some other girl.  But nix, it’s mine....  Dal, isn’t he a handsome boy here?”

With sisterly impartiality Dorothy declared she could not in the wildest flight of her imagination see her brother as handsome.

“Holt used to be good-looking,” said she.  “But he outgrew it.  That South Carolina training camp and the flu changed his looks as well as his disposition.”

“Holt is changed,” mused Margaret, gazing down at the picture, and the glow faded from her face.

“Dare Lane is handsome, even if he is a wreck,” said Elinor, with sudden enthusiasm.  “Friday night when he beat it from Fanchon’s party he sure looked splendid.”

Elinor was a staunch admirer of Lane’s and she was the inveterate torment of her girl friends.  She gave Helen a sly glance.  Helen’s green eyes narrowed and gleamed.

“Yes, Dare’s handsomer than ever,” she said.  “And to give the devil his due he’s finer than ever.  Too damn fine for this crowd!...  But what’s the use—­” she broke off.

“Yes, poor Dare Lane!” sighed Elinor.  “Dare deserves much from all of us, not to mention you.  He has made me think.  Thank Heaven, I found I hadn’t forgotten how.”

“El, no one would notice it,” returned Helen, sarcastically.

“It’s easy to see where you get off,” retorted Elinor.

Then a silence ensued, strange in view of the late banter and quick sallies; a silence breathing of restraint.  The color died wholly from Margaret’s face, and a subtle, indefinable, almost imperceptible change came over Dorothy.

“You bet Dare is handsome,” spoke up Flossie, as if to break the embarrassment.  “He’s so white since he came home.  His eyes are so dark and flashing.  Then the way he holds his head—­the look of him....  No wonder these damned slackers seem cheap compared to him....  I’d fall for Dare Lane in a minute, even if he is half dead.”