The Day of the Beast

the faces of their mothers.”

“Oh, it was rotten of Daren,” replied Margaret, with tears in her eyes. She was ashamed, indignant, incredulous. “For him to do a thing like that! He's always been the very prince of gentlemen. What on earth possessed him? Heaven knows the dances are vile, but that doesn't excuse Daren Lane. What do I care what Doctor Wallace said? Never in a thousand years will Mrs. Smith or mother or any one forgive him. Fanchon Smith is a little snob. I always hated her. She's spiteful and catty. She's a flirt all the way. She would dance any old thing. But that's not the point. Daren's disgraced himself. It was rotten—of him. And—I'll never—forgive—him, either.”

“Don't cry, Margie,” said Elinor. “It always makes your eyes red and gives you a headache. Poor Daren made a blunder. But some of us will stick to him. Don't take it so badly.”

“Margie, it was rotten of Daren, one way you look at it—our way,” added Flossie. “But you have to hand it to him for that stunt.”

Helen Wrapp preserved her sombre mood, silent and brooding.

“Margie,” went on Elinor, “there's a lot back of this. If Dare Lane could do that there must be some reason for it. Maybe we all needed a jolt. Well, we've got it. Let's stand by Daren. I will. Helen will. Floss will. You will. And surely Dal will.”

“If you askme I'll say Dare Lane ought to hand something to the men!” burst out Floss Dickerson, with fire in her eyes.

“You said a mouthful, kiddo,” responded Helen, with her narrow contracted gaze upon Margaret. “Daren gave me the once over—and then the icepick!”

“Wonder what he gave poor Mel—when he heard about her,” murmured Elinor, thoughtfully.

“Mel Iden ought to be roasted,” retorted Helen. “She was always so darned superior. And all the time....”

“Helen, don't you say a word against Mel Iden,” burst out Margaret, hotly. “She was my dearest friend. She was lovely. Her ruin was a horrible shock. But it wasn't because she was bad.... Mel had some fanatical notion about soldiers giving all—going away to be slaughtered. She said to me, 'A woman's body is so little to give,'”

“Yes, I know Mel was cracked,” replied Helen. “But she needn't have been a damn fool. She didn't need to have had that baby!”

“Helen, your idea of sin is to be found out,” said Elinor, with satire.

Again Floss Dickerson dropped her trenchant personality into the breach.

“Aw, come off!” she ejaculated. “Let somebody roast the men once, will you? I'm the little Jane thatknows , believe me. All this talk about the girls going to hell makes me sick. We may be going—and going in limousines—but it's the men who're stepping on the gas.”

“Floss, I love to hear you elocute,” drawled Helen. “Go to it! For God's sake, roast the men.”

“You always have to horn in,” retorted Floss. “Let me get this off my chest, will you?... We girls are getting talked about. There's no use denying it. Any but a blind girl could see it. And it's because we do what the men want. Every girl wants to go out—to be attractive—to have fellows. But the price is getting high. They say in Middleville that I'm rushed more than any other girl. Well, if I am I know what it costs.... If I didn't 'pet'—if I didn't mush, if I didn't park my corsets at dances—if I didn't drink and smoke, and wiggle like a jelly-fish, I'd be a dead one—an egg, and don't you overlook that. If any one says Iwant to do these things he's a fool. But I do love to have good times, and little by little I've been drawn on and on.... I've had my troubles staving off these fellows. Most of them get half drunk. Some of the girls do, too. I never went that far. I always kept my head. I never went the limit. But you can bet your sweet life it wasn't their fault I didn't fall for them.... I'll say I've had to walk home from more than one auto ride. There's something in the gag, 'I know she's a good girl because I met her walking home from an auto ride.' That's one thing I intend to cut out this summer—the auto rides. Nothing doing for little Flossie!”

“Oh, can't we talk of something else!” complained Margaret, wearily, with her hands pressing against her temples.

CHAPTER VI.

Mrs. Maynard slowly went upstairs and along the hall to her daughter's room. Margaret sat listlessly by a window. The girls had gone.

“You were going for a long walk,” said Mrs. Maynard.

“I'm tired,” replied Margaret. There was a shadow in her eyes.

The mother had never understood her daughter. And of late a subtle change in Margaret had made her more of a puzzle.

“Margaret, I want to talk seriously with you,” she began.

“Well?”

“Didn't I tell you I wanted you to break off your—your friendship with Holt Dalrymple?”

“Yes,” replied Margaret, with a flush. “I did not—want to.”

“Well, the thing which concerns you now is—he can't be regarded as a possibility for you.”

“Possibility?” echoed Margaret.

“Just that, exactly. I'm not sure of your thoughts on the matter, but it's time I knew them. Holt is a ne'er- do-well. He's gone to the bad, like so many of these army boys. No nice girl will ever associate with him again.”

“Then I'm not nice, for I will,” declared Margaret, spiritedly.

“You will persist in your friendship for him in the face of my objection?”