“Do you know what Daren said?” demanded Margaret, in a frenzy of excitement.

“No.  None of the girls know.  We can only imagine.  That makes it worse.  If Fanchon knows she won’t tell.  But it is gossip all over town.  We’ll hear it soon.  All the girls in town are imagining.  It’s spread like wildfire.  And what do you think, Margie?  In church—­on Sunday—­Doctor Wallace spoke of it.  He mentioned no names.  But he said that as the indecent dress and obscene dance of the young women could no longer be influenced by the home or the church it was well that one young man had the daring to fling the truth into the faces of their mothers.”

“Oh, it was rotten of Daren,” replied Margaret, with tears in her eyes.  She was ashamed, indignant, incredulous.  “For him to do a thing like that!  He’s always been the very prince of gentlemen.  What on earth possessed him?  Heaven knows the dances are vile, but that doesn’t excuse Daren Lane.  What do I care what Doctor Wallace said?  Never in a thousand years will Mrs. Smith or mother or any one forgive him.  Fanchon Smith is a little snob.  I always hated her.  She’s spiteful and catty.  She’s a flirt all the way.  She would dance any old thing.  But that’s not the point.  Daren’s disgraced himself.  It was rotten—­of him.  And—­I’ll never—­forgive—­him, either.”

“Don’t cry, Margie,” said Elinor.  “It always makes your eyes red and gives you a headache.  Poor Daren made a blunder.  But some of us will stick to him.  Don’t take it so badly.”

“Margie, it was rotten of Daren, one way you look at it—­our way,” added Flossie.  “But you have to hand it to him for that stunt.”

Helen Wrapp preserved her sombre mood, silent and brooding.

“Margie,” went on Elinor, “there’s a lot back of this.  If Dare Lane could do that there must be some reason for it.  Maybe we all needed a jolt.  Well, we’ve got it.  Let’s stand by Daren.  I will.  Helen will.  Floss will.  You will.  And surely Dal will.”

“If you ask me I’ll say Dare Lane ought to hand something to the men!” burst out Floss Dickerson, with fire in her eyes.

“You said a mouthful, kiddo,” responded Helen, with her narrow contracted gaze upon Margaret.  “Daren gave me the once over—­and then the icepick!”

“Wonder what he gave poor Mel—­when he heard about her,” murmured Elinor, thoughtfully.

“Mel Iden ought to be roasted,” retorted Helen.  “She was always so darned superior.  And all the time....”

“Helen, don’t you say a word against Mel Iden,” burst out Margaret, hotly.  “She was my dearest friend.  She was lovely.  Her ruin was a horrible shock.  But it wasn’t because she was bad....  Mel had some fanatical notion about soldiers giving all—­going away to be slaughtered.  She said to me, ‘A woman’s body is so little to give,’”

“Yes, I know Mel was cracked,” replied Helen.  “But she needn’t have been a damn fool.  She didn’t need to have had that baby!”