During a lull in the idle conversation Morrison addressed Carley pointedly.  “Well, Carley, how’s your Arizona hog-raiser?” he queried, with a little gleam in his usually lusterless eyes.

“I have not heard lately,” she replied, coldly.

The assembled company suddenly quieted with a portent inimical to their leisurely content of the moment.  Carley felt them all looking at her, and underneath the exterior she preserved with extreme difficulty, there burned so fierce an anger that she seemed to have swelling veins of fire.

“Queer how Kilbourne went into raising hogs,” observed Morrison.  “Such a low-down sort of work, you know.”

“He had no choice,” replied Carley.  “Glenn didn’t have a father who made tainted millions out of the war.  He had to work.  And I must differ with you about its being low-down.  No honest work is that.  It is idleness that is low down.”

“But so foolish of Glenn when he might have married money,” rejoined Morrison, sarcastcally.

“The honor of soldiers is beyond your ken, Mr. Morrison.”

He flushed darkly and bit his lip.

“You women make a man sick with this rot about soldiers,” he said, the gleam in his eye growing ugly.  “A uniform goes to a woman’s head no matter what’s inside it.  I don’t see where your vaunted honor of soldiers comes in considering how they accepted the let-down of women during and after the war.”

“How could you see when you stayed comfortably at home?” retorted Carley.

“All I could see was women falling into soldiers’ arms,” he said, sullenly.

“Certainly.  Could an American girl desire any greater happiness—­or opportunity to prove her gratitude?” flashed Carley, with proud uplift of head.

“It didn’t look like gratitude to me,” returned Morrison.

“Well, it was gratitude,” declared Carley, ringingly.  “If women of America did throw themselves at soldiers it was not owing to the moral lapse of the day.  It was woman’s instinct to save the race!  Always, in every war, women have sacrificed themselves to the future.  Not vile, but noble! . . .  You insult both soldiers and women, Mr. Morrison.  I wonder—­did any American girls throw themselves at you?”

Morrison turned a dead white, and his mouth twisted to a distorted checking of speech, disagreeable to see.

“No, you were a slacker,” went on Carley, with scathing scorn.  “You let the other men go fight for American girls.  Do you imagine one of them will ever marry you? . . .  All your life, Mr. Morrison, you will be a marked man—­ outside the pale of friendship with real American men and the respect of real American girls.”

Morrison leaped up, almost knocking the table over, and he glared at Carley as he gathered up his hat and cane.  She turned her back upon him.  From that moment he ceased to exist for Carley.  She never spoke to him again.

Next day Carley called upon her dearest friend, whom she had not seen for some time.