inhibiting factors what are called moral standards, decried individual discipline and restraint.  And while she had never considered these things, the spectacle of a philosophy—­embodied in him—­that frankly and cynically threw them overboard was disconcerting.  He regarded her as his proselyte, he called her a Puritan, and he seemed more concerned that she should shed these relics of an ancestral code than acquire the doctrines of Sorel and Pouget.  And yet association with him presented the allurement of a dangerous adventure.  Intellectually he fascinated her; and still another motive—­which she partially disguised from herself—­prevented her from repelling him.  That motive had to do with Ditmar.  She tried to put Ditmar from her mind; she sought in desperation, not only to keep busy, but to steep and lose herself in this fierce creed as an antidote to the insistent, throbbing pain that lay ambushed against her moments of idleness.  The second evening of her installation at Headquarters she had worked beyond the supper hour, helping Sanders with his accounts.  She was loath to go home.  And when at last she put on her hat and coat and entered the hall Rolfe, who had been talking to Jastro, immediately approached her.  His liquid eyes regarded her solicitously.

“You must be hungry,” he said.  “Come out with me and have some supper.”

But she was not hungry; what she needed was air.  Then he would walk a little way with her—­he wanted to talk to her.  She hesitated, and then consented.  A fierce hope had again taken possession of her, and when they came to Warren Street she turned into it.

“Where are you going?” Rolfe demanded.

“For a walk,” she said.  “Aren’t you coming?”

“Will you have supper afterwards?”

“Perhaps.”

He followed her, puzzled, yet piqued and excited by her manner, as with rapid steps she hurried along the pavement.  He tried to tell her what her friendship meant to him; they were, he declared, kindred spirits—­from the first time he had seen her, on the Common, he had known this.  She scarcely heard him, she was thinking of Ditmar; and this was why she had led Rolfe into Warren Street they might meet Ditmar!  It was possible that he would be going to the mill at this time, after his dinner!  She scrutinized every distant figure, and when they reached the block in which he lived she walked more slowly.  From within the house came to her, faintly, the notes of a piano—­his daughter Amy was practising.  It was the music, a hackneyed theme of Schubert’s played heavily, that seemed to arouse the composite emotion of anger and hatred, yet of sustained attraction and wild regret she had felt before, but never so poignantly as now.  And she lingered, perversely resolved to steep herself in the agony.

“Who lives here” Rolfe asked.

“Mr. Ditmar,” she answered.

“The agent of the Chippering Mill?”

She nodded.