she wanted me to marry her before I left. But I wouldn't do that."

Lorna promptly recovered from her amaze. "Well, it's a damn lucky
thing you didn't take her up on that marriage stuff."

There was a glint of dark youthful passion in Lorna's face. Lane felt
rise in him a desire to bid her sharply to omit slang and profanity
from the conversation. But the desire faded before his bewilderment.
All had suffered change. What had he come home to? There was no clear
answer. But whatever it was, he felt it to be enormous and staggering.
And he meant to find out. Weary as was his mind, it grasped peculiar
significances and deep portents.

"Lorna, where do you work?" he began, shifting his interest.

"At Swann's," she replied.

"In the office--at the foundry?" he asked.

"No. Mr. Swann's at the head of the leather works."

"What do you do?"

"I type letters," she answered, and rose to make him a little bow that
held the movement and the suggestion of a dancer.

"You've learned stenography?" he asked, in surprise.

"I'm learning shorthand," replied Lorna. "You see I had only a few
weeks in business school before Dick got me the job."