“Dare, if my mother throws Marg at that—slacker, I'll block the deal if it's the last thing I ever do,” he declared, violently.
“And I'll help you,” replied Lane, instantly.
“I know Margie hates him.”
“Blair, your sister is in love with Holt Dalrymple.”
“No! Not really? Thought that was only a boy-and-girl affair.... Aha! the nigger music again! Let's find a seat, Dare.”
Saxophone, trombone, piccolo, snare-drum and other barbaric instruments opened with a brazen defiance of music, and a vibrant assurance of quick, raw, strong sounds. Lane himself felt the stirring effect upon his nerves. He had difficulty in keeping still. From the lines of chairs along the walls and from doors and alcoves rushed the gay-colored throng to leap, to close, to step, to rock and sway, until the floor was full of a moving mass of life.
The first half-dozen couples Lane studied all danced more or less as Helen and Swann had, that day in Helen's studio. Then, by way of a remarkable contrast, there passed two young people who danced decently. Lane descried his sister Lorna in the throng, and when she and her partner came round in the giddy circle, Lane saw that she wiggled and toddled like the others. Lane, as she passed him, caught a glance of her eyes, flashing, reproachful, furious, directed at some one across her partner's shoulder. Lane followed that glance and saw Swann. Apparently he did not notice Lorna, and was absorbed in the dance with his own partner, Helen Wrapp. This byplay further excited Lane's curiosity. On the whole, it was an ungraceful, violent mob, almost totally lacking in restraint, whirling, kicking, swaying, clasping, instinctively physical, crude, vulgar and wild. Down the line of chairs from his position, Lane saw the chaperones of the Prom, no doubt mothers of some of these girls. Lane wondered at them with sincere and persistent amaze. If they were respectable, and had even a slight degree of intelligence, how could they look on at this dance with complacence? Perhaps after all the young people were not wholly to blame for an abnormal expression of instinctive action.
That dance had its several encores and finally ended.
Margaret and Holt made their way up to Lane and Blair. The girl was now radiant. It took no second glance for Lane to see how matters stood with her at that moment.
“Say, beat it, you two,” suddenly spoke up Blair. “There comes Swann. He's looking for you. Chase yourselves, now, Marg—Holt. Leave that slacker tous !”
Margaret gave a start, a gasp. She looked hard at her brother. Blair wore a cool smile, underneath which there was sterner hidden meaning. Then Margaret looked at Lane with slow, deep blush, making her really beautiful.
“Margie, we're for you two, strong,” said Lane, with a smile. “Go hide from Swann.”
“But I—I came with him,” she faltered.
“Then let him find you—in other words, let himget you.... 'All's fair in love and war.'”
Lane had his reward in the sweet amaze and confusion of her face, as she turned away. Holt rushed her off amid the straggling couples.
“Dare, you're a wiz,” declared Blair. “Margie's strong for Holt—I'm glad. If we could only put Swann out of the running.”
“It's a cinch,” returned Lane, with sudden heat.
“Pard, you don't know my mother. If she has picked out Swann for Margie—all I've got to say is—good night!”
“Even if we prove Swann——”
“No matter what we prove,” interrupted Blair. “No matter what, so long as he's out of jail. My mother is money mad. She'd sell Margie to the devil himself for gold, position—the means to queen it over these other mothers of girls.”
“Blair, you're—you're a little off your nut, aren't you?”
“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 whatyou 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 youall 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?”