“Not on your life.  That talk four years ago might have been irrational.  But now—­not on your life....  The world has come to an end....  Oh, Lord, look who’s coming!  Lane, did you ever in your life see such a peach as that?”

Bessy Bell had appeared, coming toward them with a callow youth near her own age.  Her dress was some soft, pale blue material that was neither gaudy nor fantastical.  But it was far from modest.  Lane had to echo Blair’s eulogy of this young specimen of the new America.  She simply verified and stabilized the assertion that physically the newer generations of girls were markedly more beautiful than those of any generation before.

Bessy either forgot to introduce her escort or did not care to.  She nodded a dismissal to him, spoke sweetly to Blair, and then took the empty chair next to Lane.

“You’re having a rotten time,” she said, leaning close to him.  She seemed all fragrance and airy grace and impelling life.

Lane had to smile.  “How do you know?”

“I can tell by your face.  Now aren’t you?”

“Well, to be honest, Miss Bessy”

“For tripe’s sake, don’t be so formal,” she interrupted.  “Call me Bessy.”

“Oh, very well, Bessy.  There’s no use to lie to you.  I’m not very happy at what I see here.”

“What’s the matter with it—­with us?” she queried, quickly.  “Everybody’s doing it.”

“That is no excuse.  Besides, that’s not so.  Everybody is not—­not——­”

“Well, not what?”

“Not doing it, whatever you meant by that,” returned Lane, with a laugh.

“Tell me straight out what you think of us,” she shot at Lane, with a purple flash of her eyes.

She irritated Lane.  Stirred him somehow, yet she seemed wholesome, full of quick response.  She was daring, sophisticated, provocative.  Therefore Lane retorted in brief, blunt speech what he thought of the majority of the girls present.

Bessy Bell did not look insulted.  She did not blush.  She did not show shame.  Her eyes darkened.  Her rosy mouth lost something of its soft curves.

“Daren Lane, we’re not all rotten,” she said.

“I did not say or imply you all were,” he replied.

She gazed up at him thoughtfully, earnestly, with an unconscious frank interest, curiosity, and reverence.

“You strike me funny,” she mused.  “I never met a soldier like you.”

“Bessy, how many soldiers have you met who have come back from France?”

“Not many, only Blair and you, and Captain Thesel, though I really didn’t meet him.  He came up to me at the armory and spoke to me.  And to-night he cut in on Roy’s dance.  Roy was sore.”

“Three.  Well, that’s not many,” replied Lane.  “Not enough to get a line on two million, is it?”

“Captain Thesel is just like all the other fellows....  But you’re not a bit like them.”

“Is that a compliment or otherwise?”