“Oh no!” she exclaimed.  She was afraid of him, she shrank from such a conspicuous sign of his favour.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I don’t want you to,” she said, and realized, as soon as she had spoken, that her words might imply the existence of a something between them never before hinted at by her.  “I’ll get Mr. Caldwell to take me through.”  She moved toward the door, and turned; though still on fire within, her manner had become demure, repressed.  “Did you wish anything more this evening?” she inquired.

“That’s all,” he said, and she saw that he was gripping the arms of his chair....

CHAPTER VII

Autumn was at hand.  All day it had rained, but now, as night fell and Janet went homeward, the white mist from the river was creeping stealthily over the city, disguising the familiar and sordid landmarks.  These had become beautiful, mysterious, somehow appealing.  The electric arcs, splotches in the veil, revealed on the Common phantom trees; and in the distance, against the blurred lights from the Warren Street stores skirting the park could be seen phantom vehicles, phantom people moving to and fro.  Thus, it seemed to Janet, invaded by a pearly mist was her own soul, in which she walked in wonder,—­a mist shot through and through with soft, exhilarating lights half disclosing yet transforming and etherealizing certain landmark’s there on which, formerly, she had not cared to gaze.  She was thinking of Ditmar as she had left him gripping his chair, as he had dismissed her for the day, curtly, almost savagely.  She had wounded and repelled him, and lingering in her was that exquisite touch of fear—­a fear now not so much inspired by Ditmar as by the semi-acknowledged recognition of certain tendencies and capacities within herself.  Yet she rejoiced in them, she was glad she had hurt Ditmar, she would hurt him again.  Still palpitating, she reached the house in Fillmore Street, halting a moment with her hand on the door, knowing her face was flushed, anxious lest her mother or Lise might notice something unusual in her manner.  But, when she had slowly mounted the stairs and lighted the gas in the bedroom the sight of her sister’s clothes cast over the chairs was proof that Lise had already donned her evening finery and departed.  The room was filled with the stale smell of clothes, which Janet detested.  She flung open the windows.  She took off her hat and swiftly tidied herself, yet the relief she felt at Lise’s absence was modified by a sudden, vehement protest against sordidness.  Why should she not live by herself amidst clean and tidy surroundings?  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.