“Now, what can I do?” queried Holt, in sudden hope his friend might see a way out.

Despairingly, Lane racked his brain for some word of advice or assurance, if not of solution.  But he found none.  Then his spirit mounted, and with it passion.

“Holt, don’t be a miserable coward,” he began, in fierce scorn.  “You’re a soldier, man, and you’ve got your life to live!...  The sun will rise—­the days will be long and pleasant—­you can work—­do something.  You can fish the streams in summer and climb the hills in autumn.  You can enjoy.  Bah! don’t tell me one shallow girl means the world.  If Margie hasn’t courage enough to run off and marry you—­let her go! But you can never tell.  Maybe Margie will stick to you.  I’ll help you.  Margie and I have always been friends and I’ll try to influence her.  Then think of your mother and sister.  Work for them.  Forget yourself—­your little, miserable, selfish desires....  My God, boy, but it’s a strange life the war’s left us to face.  I hate it.  So do you hate it.  Swann and Mackay giving nothing and getting all!...  So it looks....  But it’s false—­false.  God did not intend men to live solely for their bodies.  A balance must be struck.  They have got to pay.  Their time will come....  As for you, the harder this job is the fiercer you should be.  I’ve got to die, Holt.  But if I could live I’d show these slackers, these fickle wild girls, what they’re doing....  You can do it, Holt.  It’s the greatest part any man could be called upon to play.  It will prove the difference between you and them....”

Holt Dalrymple crushed Lane’s hand in both his own.  On his face was a glow—­his dark eyes flashed:  “Lane—­that’ll be about all,” he burst out with a kind of breathlessness.  Then his head high, he stalked out.

The next day was bad.  Lane suffered from both over-exertion and intensity of emotion.  He remained at home all day, in bed most of the time.  At supper time he went downstairs to find Lorna pirouetting in a new dress, more abbreviated at top and bottom than any costume he had seen her wear.  The effect struck him at an inopportune time.  He told her flatly that she looked like a French grisette of the music halls, and ought to be ashamed to be seen in such attire.

“Daren, I don’t think you’re a good judge of clothes these days,” she observed, complacently.  “The boys will say I look spiffy in this.”

So many times Lorna’s trenchant remarks silenced Lane.  She hit the nail on the head.  Practical, logical, inevitable were some of her speeches.  She knew what men wanted.  That was the pith of her meaning.  What else mattered?

“But Lorna, suppose you don’t look nice?” he questioned.

“I do look nice,” she retorted.

“You don’t look anything of the kind.”

“What’s nice?  It’s only a word.  It doesn’t mean much in my young life.”