Janet felt a surge of relief, in which were mingled anxiety and resentment:  relief because she was convinced that Lise was telling the truth, anxiety because she feared for Lise’s future, resentment because Ditmar had been mentioned.  Still, what she had feared most had not come to pass.  Lise left her abruptly, darting down a street that led to a back entrance of the Bagatelle, and Janet pursued her way.  Where, she wondered, would it all end?  Lise had escaped so far, but drunkenness was an ominous sign.  And “gentlemen”?  What kind of gentlemen had taken her sister to Gruber’s?  Would Ditmar do that sort of thing if he had a chance?

The pavement in front of the company boarding-houses by the canal was plastered with sodden leaves whipped from the maples by the driving rain in the night.  The sky above the mills was sepia.  White lights were burning in the loom rooms.  When she reached the vestibule Simmons, the watchman, informed her that Mr. Ditmar had already been there, and left for Boston.

Janet did not like to acknowledge to herself her disappointment on learning that Ditmar had gone to Boston.  She knew he had had no such intention the night before; an accumulated mail and many matters demanding decisions were awaiting him; and his sudden departure seemed an act directed personally against her, in the nature of a retaliation, since she had offended and repulsed him.  Through Lise’s degrading act she had arrived at the conclusion that all adventure and consequent suffering had to do with Man—­a conviction peculiarly maddening to such temperaments as Janet’s.  Therefore she interpreted her suffering in terms of Ditmar, she had looked forward to tormenting him again, and by departing he had deliberately balked and cheated her.  The rain fell ceaselessly out of black skies, night seemed ever ready to descend on the river, a darkness—­according to young Mr. Caldwell—­due not to the clouds alone, but to forest fires many hundreds of miles away, in Canada.  As the day wore on, however, her anger gradually gave place to an extreme weariness and depression, and yet she dreaded going home, inventing things for herself to do; arranging and rearranging Ditmar’s papers that he might have less trouble in sorting them, putting those uppermost which she thought he would deem the most important.  Perhaps he would come in, late!  In a world of impending chaos the brilliantly lighted office was a tiny refuge to which she clung.  At last she put on her coat and rubbers, faring forth reluctantly into the wet.

At first when she entered the bedroom she thought it empty, though the gas was burning, and them she saw Lise lying face downward on the bed.  For a moment she stood still, then closed the door softly.

“Lise,” she said.

“What?”

Janet sat down on the bed, putting out her hand.  Unconsciously she began to stroke Lise’s hand, and presently it turned and tightened on her own.