“I’ll say it’s a compliment,” she replied, with arch eyes on his.

“Thank you.”

“Well, you don’t deserve it....  You promised to make a date with me.  Why haven’t you?”

“Why child, I—­I don’t know what to say,” returned Lane, utterly disconcerted.  Yet he liked this amazing girl.  “I suppose I forgot.  But I’ve been ill, for one reason.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze.  “I heard you were badly hurt.  Won’t you tell me about your—­your hurts?”

“Some day, if opportunity affords.  I can’t here, that’s certain.”

“Opportunity!  What do you want?  Haven’t I handed myself out on a silver platter?”

Lane could find no ready retort for this query.  He gazed at her, marveling at the apparently measureless distance between her exquisite physical beauty and the spiritual beauty that should have been harmonious with it.  Still he felt baffled by this young girl.  She seemed to resemble Lorna, yet was different in a way he could not grasp.  Lorna had coarsened in fibre.  This girl was fine, despite her coarse speech.  She did not repel.

“Mr. Lane, will you dance with me?” she asked, almost wistfully.  She liked him, and was not ashamed of it.  But she seemed pondering over what to make of him—­how far to go.

“Bessy, I dare not exert myself to that extent,” he replied, gently.  “You forget I am a disabled soldier.”

“Forget that?  Not a chance,” she flashed.  “But I hoped you might dance with me once—­just a little.”

“No.  I might keel over.”

She shivered and her eyes dilated.  “You mean it as a joke.  But it’s no joke....  I read about your comrade—­that poor Red Payson!” ...  Then both devil of humor and woman of fire shone in her glance.  “Daren, if you did keel over—­you’d die in my arms—­not on the floor!”

Then another partner came up to claim her.  As the orchestra blurted forth and Bessy leaned to the dancer’s clasp she shouted audaciously at Lane:  “Don’t forget that silver platter!”

Lane turned to Blair to find that worthy shaking his handsome head.

“Did you hear what she said?” asked Lane, close to Blair’s ear.

“Every word,” replied Blair.  “Some kid!...  She’s like the girl in the motion-pictures.  She comes along.  She meets the fellow.  She looks at him—­she says ’good day’—­then Wham, into his arms....  My God!...  Lane, is that kid good or bad?”

“Good!” exclaimed Lane, instantly.

“Bah!”

“Good—­still,” returned Lane.  “But alas!  She is brazen, unconscious of it.  But she’s no fool, that kid.  Lorna is an absolute silly bull-headed fool.  I wish Bessy Bell was my sister—­or I mean that Lorna was like her.”

“Here comes Swann without Margie.  Looks sore as a pup.  The——­”

“Shut up, Blair.  I want to listen to this jazz.”