Her eyes darkened under his gaze, and a slow crimson tide stained her white face.

“I understand you, Mel,” he said, swiftly.  “You must forgive me that I didn’t understand at once....  And I think you are infinitely better, finer, purer than these selfsame girls who scorn you.”

“Daren!  You—­understand?” she faltered.

And just as swiftly he told her the revelation that thinking had brought to him.

When he had finished she looked at him for a long while.  “Yes, Daren,” she finally said, “you understand, and you have made me understand.  I always felt”—­and her hand went to her heart—­“but my mind did not grasp....  Oh, Daren, how I thank you!” and she held her hands out to him.

Lane grasped the outstretched hands, and loosed the leaping thought her words and action created.

“Mel, let me give your boy a father—­a name.”

No blow could have made her shrink so palpably.  It passed—­that shame.  Her lips parted, and other emotions claimed her.

“Daren—­you would—­marry me?” she gasped.

“I am asking you to be my wife for your child’s sake,” he replied.

Her head bowed.  She sank against him, trembling.  Her hands clung tightly to his.  Lane divined something of her agitation from the feel of her slender form.  And then again that deep and profound thrill ran over him.  It was followed by an instinct to wrap her in his arms, to hold her, to share her trouble and to protect her.

Strong reserve force suddenly came to Mel.  She drew away from Lane, still quivering, but composed.

“Daren, all my life I’ll thank you and bless you for that offer,” she said, very low.  “But, of course it is impossible.”

She disengaged her hands, and, turning away, looked out of the window.  Lane rather weakly sat down.  What had come over him?  His blood seemed bursting in his veins.  Then he gazed round the dingy little parlor and at this girl of twenty, whose beauty did not harmonize with her surroundings.  Fair-haired, white-faced, violet-eyed, she emanated tragedy.  He watched her profile, clear cut as a cameo, fine brow, straight nose, sensitive lips, strong chin.  She was biting those tremulous lips.  And when she turned again to him they were red.  The short-bowed upper lip, full and sweet, the lower, with its sensitive droop at the corner, eloquent of sorrow—­all at once Lane realized he wanted to kiss that mouth more than he had ever wanted anything.  The moment was sudden and terrible, for it meant love—­love such as he had never known.

“Daren,” she said, turning, “tell me how you got the Croix de Guerre.”

By the look of her and the hand that moved toward his breast, Lane felt his power over her.  He began his story and it was as if he heard some one else talking.  When he had finished, she asked, “The French Army honored you, why not the American?”

“It was never reported.”