“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

Ditmar stood staring after the trolley car that bore Janet away until it became a tiny speck of light in the distance.  Then he started to walk toward Hampton; in the unwonted exercise was an outlet for the pent-up energy her departure had thwarted; and presently his body was warm with a physical heat that found its counterpart in a delicious, emotional glow of anticipation, of exultant satisfaction.  After all, he could not expect to travel too fast with her.  Had he not at least gained a signal victory?  When he remembered her lips—­which she had indubitably given him!—­he increased his stride, and in what seemed an incredibly brief time he had recrossed the bridge, covered the long residential blocks of Warren Street, and gained his own door.

The house was quiet, the children having gone to bed, and he groped his way through the dark parlour to his den, turning on the electric switch, sinking into an armchair, and lighting a cigar.  He liked this room of his, which still retained something of that flavour of a refuge and sanctuary it had so eminently possessed in the now forgotten days of matrimonial conflict.  One of the few elements of agreement he had held in common with the late Mrs. Ditmar was