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At first, as he read his mail, he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. She stood by the window, awaiting his pleasure, watching the white mist as it rolled over the floor of the river, catching glimpses in vivid, saffron blurs of the lights of the Arundel Mill on the farther shore. Autumn was at hand. Suddenly she heard Ditmar speaking.
Ditmar halted in his steps at the sight of the tall, spectacled figure of the superintendent on the threshold. Orcutt hesitated, looking from one to the other. "I've been waiting for you," he said, after a moment, "the rest of that lot didn't come in this morning. I've telephoned to the freight agent." Ditmar stared at him uncomprehendingly. Orcutt repeated the information.
She had begun to earn enough, and somehow a vista had been opened up a vista whose end she could not see, alluring, enticing.... In the dining-room, by the cleared table, her father was reading the Banner; her mother appeared in the kitchen door. "What in the world happened to you, Janet?" she exclaimed. "Nothing," said Janet. "Mr. Ditmar asked me to stay that was all. He'd been away."
Her acceptance of the act for Lise was a function of the hatred consuming her, a hatred which, growing in bigness, had made Ditmar merely the personification of that world. From time to time her hands clenched, her brow furrowed, powerful waves of heat ran through her, the craving for action became so intense she could scarcely refrain from rising in her seat.
Where would it lead? Her fear, her antagonism, of which she was still conscious, her resentment that Ditmar had thus surreptitiously chosen to approach her in a moment when they were unobserved were mingled with a throbbing exultation in that he had noticed her, that there was something in her to attract him in that way, to make his voice thicker and his smile apologetic when he spoke to her.
And Ditmar, gazing around over the heads of the diners, spied in an alcove by a window a little table with tilted chairs. "That one'll do," he said. "I'm sorry, but it's engaged," apologized Mr. Hale. "Forget it, Eddie tell 'em they're late," said Ditmar, making his way toward it. The proprietor pulled out Janet's chair. "Say," he remarked, "it's no wonder you get along in business."
She had recognized no immorality of sentimentality in the art itself; what she felt, and with some justice, was that this particular Magdalen was unrepentant, and that Ditmar knew it. And the picture remained an offence to her as long as she lived.
Ditmar preferred blondes, and he liked them rather stout, a predilection that had led him into matrimony with a lady of this description: a somewhat sticky, candy-eating lady with a mania for card parties, who undoubtedly would have dyed her hair if she had lived.
Once or twice she felt his hand on her shoulders.... And then, unlooked for and unbidden, pity began to invade her. Absurd to pity him! She fought against it, but the thought of Ditmar reduced to abjectness gained ground. After all, he had tried to be generous, he had done his best, he loved her, he needed her the words rang in her heart.
Reassured by the unsteadiness of his voice she raised her eyes to perceive that his face was ashy, his manner nervous, apprehensive, conciliatory, a Ditmar she had difficulty in recognizing. "I didn't mean to frighten, to offend you," he went on. "Something got hold of me. I was crazy, I couldn't help it I won't do it again, if you'll stay. I give you my word." She did not reply.
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