Norman broke into a laugh. "Then away with vain regrets! And remember the fate of Lot's wife."
Elena pressed his hand close to her side and whispered:
"You are with me. The big handsome captain of last year's football team. Very young and very vain and very foolish and very lazy—but I do think you'd stand by me in a scrap, Norman. Wouldn't you?"
"Well, I rather think!" was the deep answer, half whispered, as they suddenly turned a corner and plunged into the red-light district. His strong hand gripped her wrist with unusual tenderness.
"So who's afraid?" she cried, looking up into his face just as a drunken blear-eyed woman staggered through an open door and lurched against her.
A low scream of terror came from Elena as she sprang back, and the woman's head struck the pavement with a dull whack. Norman bent over her and started to lift the heavy figure, when her fist suddenly shot into his face.
"Go ter hell—I can take care o' myself!"
"Evidently," he laughed.
Elena's hand suddenly gripped his.
"Let's go back, Norman."