The next day was bad. Lane suffered from both over-exertion and intensity of emotion. He remained at home all day, in bed most of the time. At supper time he went downstairs to find Lorna pirouetting in a new dress, more abbreviated at top and bottom than any costume he had seen her wear. The effect struck him at an inopportune time. He told her flatly that she looked like a French grisette of the music halls, and ought to be ashamed to be seen in such attire. "Daren, I don't think you're a good judge of clothes these days," she observed, complacently. "The boys will say I look spiffy in this." So many times Lorna's trenchant remarks silenced Lane. She hit the nail on the head. Practical, logical, inevitable were some of her speeches. She knew what men wanted. That was the pith of her meaning. What else mattered? "But Lorna, suppose you don't look nice?" he questioned. "I _do_ look nice," she retorted. "You don't look anything of the kind." "What's nice? It's only a word. It doesn't mean much in my young life." "Where are you going to-night?" he asked, sitting down to the table. "To the armory--basketball game--and dance afterward." "With whom?" "With Harry. I suppose that pleases you, big brother?" "Yes, it does. I like him. I wish he'd take you out oftener." "_Take_ me! Hot dog! He'd kill himself to take me all the time. But Harry's slow. He bores me. Then he hasn't got a car." "Lorna, you may as well know now that I'm going to stop your car rides," said Lane, losing his patience. "You are _not_," she retorted, and in the glint of the eyes meeting his, Lane saw his defeat. His patience was exhausted, his fear almost verified. He did not mince words. With his mother standing open-mouthed and shocked, Lane gave his sister to understand what he thought of automobile rides, and that as far as she was concerned they had to be stopped. If she would not stop them out of respect to her mother and to him, then he would resort to other measures. Lorna bounced up in a fury, and in the sharp quarrel that followed, Lane realized he was dealing with flint full of fire. Lorna left without finishing her supper. "Daren, that's not the way," said his mother, shaking her head. "What is the way, mother?" he asked, throwing up his hands. "I don't know, unless it's to see her way," responded the mother. "Sometimes I feel so--so old-fashioned and ignorant before Lorna. Maybe she is right. How can we tell? What makes all the young girls like that?"