"Is that a compliment or otherwise?"
"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.