“Miss Bumpus—­would you mind coming into my room a moment, before you leave?” he said.

She rose instantly and followed him, closing the door behind her, but standing at bay against it, her hand on the knob.

“I’m not going to touch you—­you needn’t be afraid,” he said.  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.  After a pause he began again, repeating himself.

“I didn’t mean to do it.  I was carried away—­it all happened before I knew.  I—­I wouldn’t frighten you that way for anything in the world.”

Still she was silent.

“For God’s sake, speak to me!” he cried.  “Say you forgive me—­give me another chance!”

But she continued to gaze at him with widened, enigmatic eyes—­whether of reproach or contempt or anger he could not say.  The situation transcended his experience.  He took an uncertain step toward her, as though half expecting her to flee, and stopped.

“Listen!” he pleaded.  “I can’t talk to you here.  Won’t you give me a chance to explain—­to put myself right?  You know what I think of you, how I respect and—­admire you.  If you’ll only let me see you somewhere —­anywhere, outside of the office, for a little while, I can’t tell you how much I’d appreciate it.  I’m sure you don’t understand how I feel—­I couldn’t bear to lose you.  I’ll be down by the canal—­near the bridge —­at eight o’clock to-night.  I’ll wait for you.  You’ll come?  Say you’ll come, and give me another chance!”

“Aren’t you going to finish your letters?” she asked.

He stared at her in sheer perplexity.  “Letters!” he exclaimed.  “Damn the letters!  Do you think I could write any letters now?”

As a faint ray in dark waters, a gleam seemed to dance in the shadows of her eyes, yet was gone so swiftly that he could not be sure of having seen it.  Had she smiled?

“I’ll be there,” he cried.  “I’ll wait for you.”

She turned from him, opened the door, and went out.

That evening, as Janet was wiping the dishes handed her by her mother, she was repeating to herself “Shall I go—­or shan’t I?”—­just as if the matter were in doubt.  But in her heart she was convinced of its predetermination by some power other than her own volition.  With this feeling, that she really had no choice, that she was being guided and impelled, she went to her bedroom after finishing her task.  The hands of the old dining-room clock pointed to quarter of eight, and Lise had already made her toilet and departed.  Janet opened the wardrobe, looked at the new blue suit hanging so neatly on its wire holder, hesitated,