They sat down to supper, and Lane, sick, dazed, weak, found eating his
first meal at home as different as everything else from what he had
expected. There had been no lack of warmth or love in Lorna's welcome,
but he suffered disappointment. Again for the hundredth time he put
it aside and blamed his morbid condition. Nothing must inhibit his
gladness.

Lorna gave Lane no chance to question her. She was eager, voluble,
curious, and most disconcertingly oblivious of a possible
sensitiveness in Lane.

"Dare, you look like a dead one," she said. "Did you get shot,
bayoneted, gassed, shell-shocked and all the rest? Did you go over the
top? Did you kill any Germans? Gee! did you get to ride in a
war-plane? Come across, now, and tell me."

"I guess about--everything happened to me--except going west,"
returned Lane. "But I don't want to talk about that. I'm too glad to
be home."

"What's that on your breast?" she queried, suddenly, pointing at the
_Croix de Guerre_ he wore.

"That? Lorna, that's my medal."

"Gee! Let me see." She got up and came round to peer down closely, to
finger the decoration. "French! I never saw one before.... Daren,
haven't you an American medal too?"