"A girl _must_ have a good time," she replied presently. "I've done things I hated because I couldn't bear to be left out of the fun.... But I like most to read and dream. Music makes me strange inside, and to want to do great things. Only there _are_ no great things to do. I've never been nutty about a career, like Helen is. And I always hated work.... I guess--to tell on the level--what I want most is to be loved." With that she raised her eyes to Lane's. He tried to read her mind, and realized that if he failed it was not because she was not baring it. Dropping his own gaze, he pondered. The girl's response to his earnestness was intensely thought-provoking. No matter how immodestly she was dressed, or what she had confessed to, or whether she had really expected and desired dalliance on his part--here was the truth as to her hidden yearning. The seething and terrible Renaissance of the modern girl seemed remarkably exemplified in Bessy Bell, yet underneath it all hid the fundamental instinct of all women of all ages. Bessy wanted most to be loved. Was that the secret of her departure from the old-fashioned canons of modesty and reserve? "Bessy," went on Lane, presently. "I've heard my sister speak of Rose Clymer. Is she a friend of yours, too?" "You bet. And she's the square kid." "Lorna told me she'd been expelled from school." "Yes. She refused to tattle." "Tattle what?" "I wrote some verses which one of the girls copied. Miss Hill found them and raised the roof. She kept us all in after school. She let some of the girls off. But she expelled Rose and sent me home. Then she called on mama. I don't know what she said, but mama didn't let me go back. I've had a hateful old tutor for a month. In the fall I'm going to private school." "And Rose?" "Rose went to work. She had a hard time. I never heard from her for weeks. But she's a telephone operator at the Exchange now. She called me up one day lately and told me. I hope to see her soon." "About those verses, Bessy. How did Miss Hill find out who wrote them?" "I told her. Then she sent me home." "Have you any more verses you wrote?" "Yes, a lot of them. If you lend me your pencil, I'll write out the verse that gave Miss Hill heart disease." Bessy took up a book that had been lying on the seat, and tearing out the fly-leaf, she began to write. Her slim, shapely hand flew. It fascinated Lane. "There!" she said, ending with a flourish and a smile. But Lane, foreshadowing the import of the verse, took the page with reluctance. Then he read it. Verses of this significance were new to him. Relief came to Lane in the divination that Bessy could not have had experience of what she had written. There was worldliness in the verse, but innocence in her eyes. "Well, Bessy, my heart isn't much stronger than Miss Hill's," he said, finally. Her merry laughter rang out. "Bessy, what will you do for me?" "Anything."