go, and led the way toward the unfrequented district of the south side.  It was the road to Silliston, but she had forgotten that.  Ditmar, regaining her side, continued his pleading.  He spoke of his loneliness, which he had never realized.  He needed her.  And she experienced an answering pang.  It still seemed incredible that he, too, who had so much, should feel that gnawing need for human sympathy and understanding that had so often made her unhappy.  And because of the response his need aroused in her she did not reflect whether he could fulfil her own need, whether he could ever understand her; whether, at any time, she could unreservedly pour herself out to him.

“I don’t see why you want me,” she interrupted him at last.  “I’ve never had any advantages, I don’t know anything.  I’ve never had a chance to learn.  I’ve told you that before.”

“What difference does that make?  You’ve got more sense than any woman I ever saw,” he declared.

“It makes a great deal of difference to me,” she insisted—­and the sound of these words on her own lips was like a summons arousing her from a dream.  The sordidness of her life, its cruel lack of opportunity in contrast with the gifts she felt to be hers, and on which he had dwelt, was swept back into her mind.  Self-pity, dignity, and inherent self-respect struggled against her woman’s desire to give; an inherited racial pride whispered that she was worthy of the best, but because she had lacked the chance, he refrained from offering her what he would have laid at the feet of another woman.

“I’ll give you advantages—­there’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.  Why won’t you come to me?  I’ll take care of you.”

“Do you think I want to be taken care of?” She wheeled on him so swiftly that he started back.  “Is that what you think I want?”

“No, no,” he protested, when he recovered his speech.

“Do you think I’m after—­what you can give me?” she shot at him.  “What you can buy for me?”

To tell the truth, he had not thought anything about it, that was the trouble.  And her question, instead of enlightening him, only added to his confusion and bewilderment.

“I’m always getting in wrong with you,” he told her, pathetically.  “There isn’t anything I’d stop at to make you happy, Janet, that’s what I’m trying to say.  I’d go the limit.”

“Your limit!” she exclaimed.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.  But she had become inarticulate —­cryptic, to him.  He could get nothing more out of her.

“You don’t understand me—­you never will!” she cried, and burst into tears—­tears of rage she tried in vain to control.  The world was black with his ignorance.  She hated herself, she hated him.  Her sobs shook her convulsively, and she scarcely heard him as he walked beside her along the empty road, pleading and clumsily seeking to comfort her.  Once or twice she felt his hand on her shoulders....  And then, unlooked for and