"One thing we mothers all agree on. These girls, of this generation, say fourteen to sixteen, can't be stopped."
"Then that is a serious matter. It must be a peculiarity of the day. Maybe the war left this condition."
"The war changed all things, my son," replied his mother, sadly.
Lane walked thoughtfully down the street toward Doctor Bronson's office. As long as he walked slowly he managed not to give any hint of his weakness. The sun was shining with steely brightness and the March wind was living up to its fame. He longed for summer and hot days in quiet woods or fields where daisies bloomed. Would he live to see the Indian summer days, the smoky haze, the purple asters?
Lane was admitted at once into the office of Doctor Bronson, a little, gray, slight man with shrewd, kind eyes and a thoughtful brow. For years he had been a friend as well as physician to the Lanes, and he had always liked Daren. His surprise was great and his welcome warm. But a moment later he gazed at Lane with piercing eyes.
"Look here, boy, did you go to the bad over there?" he demanded.
"How do you mean, Doctor?"
"Did you let down—debase yourself morally?"
"No. But I went to the bad physically and spiritually."
"I see that. I don't like the color of your face.... Well, well, Daren. It was hell, wasn't it? Did you kill a couple of Huns for me?"