"Sure," she replied gravely, mocking eyes on Leonard. "Weren't you?"
Leonard shook his head. "Just with actresses and things, when I was a kid. Never, really."
"I suppose," said Marjorie, pensively, "I ought to care if you've been bad or not, but I don't."
"But Marjie, darling,"—Leonard brought her back and went straight to his point,—"were you ever really in love with that German chap you spoke of when I gave you the helmet?"
"He was my first love," said Marjorie, with wicked demureness. "I was fifteen and he was eighteen."
"You were just a flapper," said Leonard; "you couldn't be in love."
"A woman is never too young to adore some man," said Marjorie, sagely. "I was a miserable homesick wretch, spending the winter in a German boarding-school."
"A German school! What for?"
Marjorie, her small face drawn with fatigue, but her eyes vivid with excitement, regarded him pertly.
"In order to learn German—and culture."