The Danger Mark. Chambers Robert William

face; he turned sharply on his heel.

      "Wait!" said Geraldine; "Duane—do you hear me?"

      "I'll take you back," began Dysart, but she passed in front of him and laid her hand on Mallett's arm.

      "Won't you wait for me, Duane?"

      And suddenly things seemed to be as they had been in their childhood, the resurgence swept them both back to the old and stormy footing again.

      "Duane!"

      "What?"

      "I tell you to wait for me—here!" She stamped her foot.

      He scowled—but waited. She turned on Dysart:

      "Good-night!"—offering her hand with decision.

      Dysart began: "But I had expected–"

      "Good-night!"

      Dysart stared, took the offered hand, hesitated, started to speak, thought better of it, made a characteristically graceful obeisance, and an excellent exit, all things considered.

      Geraldine drew a deep breath, moved forward through the flower-set dimness a step or two, halted, and, as Mallett came up, passed her arm through his.

      "Duane," she said, "the champagne has gone to my head."

      "Nonsense!"

      "It has! My cheeks are queer—the skin fits too tight. My legs don't belong to me—but they'll do."

      She laughed and turned toward him; her feverish breath touched his cheek.

      "My first dinner! Isn't it disgraceful? But how could I know?"

      "You mustn't let it scare you."

      "It doesn't. I don't care. I knew something would go wrong. I—the truth is, that I don't know how to act—how to accept my liberty. I don't know how to use it. I'm a perfect fool.... Do you think Kathleen will notice this? Isn't it terrible! She never dreamed I would touch any wine. Do I look—queer?"

      "No. It isn't so, anyway—and you'll simply lean on me–"

      "Oh, my knees are perfectly steady. It's only that they don't seem to belong to me. I'm—I'm excited—I've laughed too much—more than I have ever laughed in all the years of my life put together. You don't know what I mean, do you, Duane? But it's true; I've talked to-night more than I ever have in any one week.... And it's gone to my head—all this—all these people who laugh with me over nothing—follow me, tell me I am pretty, ask me for dances, favours, beg me for a word with them—as though I would need asking or urging!—as though my impulse is not to open my heart to every one of them—open my arms to them—thank them on my knees for being here—for being nice to me—all these boys who make little circles around me—so funny, so quaint in their formality–"

      She pressed his arm tighter.

      "Let me rattle on—let me babble, Duane. I've years of silence to make up for. Let me talk like a fool; you know I'm not one.... Oh, the happiness of this one night!—the happiness of it! I never shall have enough dancing, never enough of pleasure.... I—I'm perfectly mad over pleasure; I like men.... I suppose the champagne makes me frank about it—but I don't care—I do like men–"

      "That one?" demanded Mallett, halting her on the edge of the palms which screened the conservatory doors.

      "You mean Mr. Dysart? Yes—I—do like him."

      "Well, he's married, and you'd better not," he snapped.

      "C-can't I like him?" in piteous astonishment which set the colour flying into his face.

      "Why, yes—of course—I didn't mean–"

      "What did you mean? Isn't it—shouldn't he be–"

      "Oh, it's all right, Geraldine. Only he's a sort of a pig to keep you away from—others–"

      "Other—pigs?"

      He turned sharply, seized her, and forcibly turned her toward the light. She made no effort to control her laughter, excusing it between breaths:

      "I didn't mean to turn what you said into ridicule; it came out before I meant it.... Do let me laugh a little, Duane. I simply cannot care about anything serious for a while—I want to be frivolous–"

      "Don't laugh so loud," he whispered.

      She released his arm and sank down on a marble seat behind the flowering oleanders.

      "Why are you so disagreeable?" she pouted. "I know I'm a perfect fool, and the champagne has gone to my silly head—and you'll never catch me this way again.... Don't scowl at me. Why don't you act like other men? Don't you know how?"

      "Know how?" he repeated, looking down into the adorably flushed face uplifted. "Know how to do what?"

      "To flirt. I don't. Everybody has tried to teach me to-night—everybody except you … Duane.... I'm ready to go home; I'll go. Only my head is whirling so—Tell me—are you glad to see me again?… Really?… And you don't mind my folly? And my tormenting you?… And my—my turning your head a little?"

      "You've done that," he said, forcing a laugh.

      "Have I?… I knew it.... You see, I am horridly truthful to-night. In vino veritas! … Tell me—did I, all by myself, turn that too-experienced head of yours?"

      "You're doing it now," he said.

      She laughed deliciously. "Now? Am I? Yes, I know I am. I've made a lot of men think hard to-night.... I didn't know I could; I never before thought of it.... And—even you, too?… You're not very serious, are you?"

      "Yes, I am. I tell you, Geraldine, I'm about as much in love with you as–"

      "In love!"

      "Yes–"

      "No!"

      "Yes, I am–"

      But she would not have it put so crudely.

      "You dear boy," she said, "we'll both be quite sane to-morrow.... No, I don't mind your kissing my hand—I'm dreadfully tired, anyway.... We'll find Kathleen, shall we? My head doesn't buzz much."

      "Geraldine," he said, deliberately encircling her waist, "you are only the same small girl I used to know, after all."

      "Y-yes, I'm afraid so."

      "And you're not really old enough to really care for anybody, are you?"

      "Care?"

      "Love."

      "No, I'm not. Don't talk to me that way, Duane."

      He drew her suddenly into his arms and kissed her on the cheek twice, and again on the mouth, as, crimson, breathless, she strained away from him.

      "Duane!" she gasped—"why did you?" Then the throbbing of her body and crushed lips made her furious. "Why did you do that?" she cried fiercely—but her voice ended in a dry sob; she covered her head and face with bare arms; her hands tightened convulsively and clenched.

      "Oh," she said, "how could you!—when I came to you—feeling—afraid of myself! I know you now. You are what they say you are."

      "What do they say I am?" he stammered.

      "Horrid—I don't know—wild!—whatever that implies.... I didn't care—I didn't care even to understand, because I thought you generous and nice to me—and I was so confident of you that I came with you and told you I had had some champagne which made my head swim.... And you—did this! It—it was contemptible."

      He bit his lip, but said nothing.

      "Why did you do it?" she demanded, dropping her arms from her face and staring at him. "Is that the sort of thing you did abroad?"

      "Can't you see I'm in love with you?" he said.

      "Oh! Is that love? Then keep it for your models and—and Bohemian grisettes! A decent man couldn't have done such a thing to me. I—I loathe myself for being silly and weak enough to have touched that wine, but I have more contempt for you than I have for myself.