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.  After all, he did not realize how could she expect him to realize? and her imagination conjured up the situation in a new perspective.  Her sobs gradually ceased, and presently she stopped in the middle of the road and regarded him.  He seemed utterly miserable, like a hurt child whom she longed to comfort.  But what she said was:—­“I ought to be going home.”

“Not yet!” he begged.  “It’s early.  You say I don’t understand you, Janet—­my God, I wish I did!  It breaks me all up to see you cry like that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment.  “I—­I can’t make you understand.  I guess I’m not like anybody else I’m queer—­I can’t help it.  You must let me go, I only make you unhappy.”

“Let you go!” he cried—­and then in utter self-forgetfulness she yielded her lips to his.  A sound penetrated the night, she drew back from his arms and stood silhouetted against the glare of the approaching headlight of a trolley car, and as it came roaring down on them she hailed it.  Ditmar seized her arm.

“You’re not going—­now?” he said hoarsely.

“I must,” she whispered.  “I want to be alone—­I want to think.  You must let me.”

“I’ll see you to-morrow?”

“I don’t know—­I want to think.  I’m—­I’m tired.”

The brakes screamed as the car came joltingly to a stop.  She flew up the steps, glancing around to see whether Ditmar had followed her, and saw him still standing in the road.  The car was empty of passengers, but the conductor must have seen her leaving a man in this lonely spot.  She glanced at his face, white and pinched and apathetic—­he must have seen hundreds of similar episodes in the course of his nightly duties.  He was unmoved as he took her fare.  Nevertheless, at the thought that these other episodes might resemble hers, her face flamed—­she grew hot all over.  What should she do now?  She could not think.  Confused with her shame was the memory of a delirious joy, yet no sooner would she give herself up, trembling, to this memory when in turn it was penetrated by qualms of resentment, defiling its purity.  Was Ditmar ashamed of her?...  When she reached home and had got into bed she wept a little, but her tears were neither of joy nor sorrow.  Her capacity for both was exhausted.  In this strange mood she fell asleep nor did she waken when, at midnight, Lise stealthily crept in beside her.

CHAPTER X