It was Blair's hand that stiffened Lane. They halted, erect, like statues, with eyes that failed to see Thesel. He did not exist for them. With a flush of annoyance he spoke, and breaking from Helen, passed on. A sudden silence in the groups nearby gave evidence that the incident had been observed. Then whispers rose.
"Boys, aren't you dancing?" asked Helen, with a mocking sweetness. "Let me teach you the new steps."
"Thanks, Helen," replied Lane, in sudden weariness. "But I couldn't go it."
"Why did you come? To blow us up again? Lose your nerve?"
"Yes, I lost it to-night—and something more."
"Blair, you shouldn't have left one of your legs in France," she said, turning to Blair. She had always hated Blair, a fact omnipresent now in her green eyes.
Blair had left courtesy and endurance in France, as was evinced by the way he bent closer to Helen, to speak low, with terrible passion.
"If I had it to do over again—I'd see you and your kind—your dirt-cheap crowd of painted hussies where you belong—in the clutch of the Huns!"