Whereupon Lane got up, and seated himself beside Bessy so that he need not shout to be heard.
"That was nice of you, Miss Bell—but rather hard on the youngster," said Lane.
"He makes me sick. All he wants to do is lolly-gag.... Besides, after what you said to Helen about the jazz I wouldn't dance in front of you on a bet."
She was forceful, frank, naive. She was impressed by his nearness; but Lane saw that it was the fact of his being a soldier with a record, not his mere physical propinquity that affected her. She seemed both bold and shy. But she did not show any modesty. Her short skirt came above her bare knees, and she did not try to hide them from Lane's sight. At fifteen, like his sister Lorna, this girl had the development of a young woman. She breathed health, and something elusive that Lane could not catch. If it had not been for her apparent lack of shame, and her rouged lips and cheeks, and her plucked eyebrows, she would have been exceedingly alluring. But no beauty, however striking, could under these circumstances, stir Lane's heart. He was fascinated, puzzled, intensely curious.
"Why wouldn't you dance jazz in front of me?" he inquired, with a smile.
"Well, for one thing I'm not stuck on it, and for another I'll say you said a mouthful."
"Is that all?" he asked, as if disappointed.
"No. I'd respect what you said—because of where you've been and what you've done."
It was a reply that surprised Lane.
"I'm out of date, you know."