Quin | Page 2

so square and trim, refused to fill out his
uniform. It was the first time he had had it on for six months, his
wardrobe having been limited to pajamas and bath-robes during his
convalescence in various hospitals at home and abroad.
Two years before, when he had left a lumber camp in Maine to answer
America's first call for volunteers to France, his personal appearance
had concerned him not in the least. But the army had changed that, as it
had changed most things for Quin.
He checked his overcoat at the hall entrance, stepped eagerly up to the
railing that divided the spectators from the dancers, and drew a deep
breath of satisfaction. Here, at last, was something different from the
everlasting hospital barracks: glowing lights, holiday decorations, the
scent of flowers instead of the stale fumes of ether and disinfectants;
soul-stirring music in place of the wheezy old phonograph grinding out
the same old tunes; and, above all, girls, hundreds of them, circling in a
bewildering rainbow of loveliness before him.
Was it any wonder that Quin's foot began to twitch, and that, in spite of
repeated warnings at the hospital, a blind desire seized him to dance?
At the mere thought his heart gained a beat--that unruly heart, which
had caused so much trouble. It had never been right since that August
day in the Sevzevais sector, when, to quote his citation, he "had shown
great initiative in assuming command when his officer was disabled,
and, with total disregard for his personal safety, had held his
machine-gun against almost impossible odds." In the accomplishment
of this feat he had been so badly gassed and wounded that his career as

a soldier was definitely, if gloriously, ended.
The long discipline of pain to which he had been subjected had not,
however, conquered Quin's buoyancy. He was still tremendously vital,
and when he wanted anything he wanted it inordinately and
immediately. Just now, when every muscle in him was keeping time to
that soul-disturbing music, he heard his own imperative desire voiced
at his elbow:
"I don't want to go home. I want to dance. Nobody will notice us. Just
one round, Captain Phipps."
The voice was young and singularly vibrant, and the demand in it was
quite as insistent as the demand that was clamoring in Quin's own
khaki-covered breast.
He craned his neck to see the speaker; but she was hidden by her escort,
in whose supercilious profile he recognized one of the officers in
charge of his ward at the hospital.
"You foolish child!" the officer was saying, fingering his diminutive
mustache and viewing the scene with a somewhat contemptuous smile.
"You said if I would bring you in for a moment you wouldn't ask to
stay."
"I know, but I always break my promises," said the coaxing voice; "and
besides I'm simply crazy to dance."
"You surely don't imagine that I would get out on the floor with all this
hoi-poloi?"
Quin saw a pair of small gloved hands grasp the railing resolutely, and
he was straightway filled with indignation that any man, of whatever
rank, should stand back on his dignity when a voice like that asked a
favor. A similar idea had evidently occurred to the young lady, for she
said with some spirit:
"The only difference I can see between these boys and you is that they

are privates who got over, and you are an officer who didn't."
Quin could not hear the answer, but as the officer shifted his position
he caught his first glimpse of the girl. She was very young and
obviously imperious, with white skin and coal-black hair and the most
utterly destructive brown eyes he had ever encountered. Discretion
should have prompted him to seek immediate safety out of the
firing-line, but instead he put himself in the most exposed position
possible and waited results.
They arrived on schedule time.
"Captain Phipps!" called a page. "Wanted on the telephone."
"Will you wait for me here just a second?" asked the officer.
"I don't know whether I will or not," was the spirited answer; "I may go
home."
"Then I'll follow you," said the Captain as he pushed his way through
the crowd to the telephone-booth.
It was just at this moment, when the jazz band was breaking into its
most beguiling number, that Quin's eyes and the girl's eyes met in a
glance of mutual desire. History repeated itself. Once again, "with total
disregard for his personal safety, Sergeant Graham assumed command
when his officer was disabled," and rashly flung himself into the
breach.
"Will you dance it with me?" he asked eagerly, and he blushed to the
roots of his stubbly hair.
There was an ominous pause, during which the young girl stood
irresolute, while Mrs.