On the whole, such was Janet’s notion of the Deity, though deep within her there may have existed a hope that he might be outwitted; that, by dint of energy and brains, the fair things of life might be obtained despite a malicious opposition.  And she loved Ditmar.  This must be love she felt, this impatience to see him again, this desire to be with him, this agitation possessing her so utterly that all day long she had dwelt in an unwonted state like a somnambulism:  it must be love, though not resembling in the least the generally accepted, virginal ideal.  She saw him as he was, crude, powerful, relentless in his desire; his very faults appealed.  His passion had overcome his prudence, he had not intended to propose, but any shame she felt on this score was put to flight by a fierce exultation over the fact that she had brought him to her feet, that he wanted her enough to marry her.  It was wonderful to be wanted like that!  But she could not achieve the mental picture of herself as Ditmar’s wife—­especially when, later in the evening, she walked up Warren Street and stood gazing at his house from the opposite pavement.  She simply could not imagine herself living in that house as its mistress.  Notwithstanding the testimony of the movies, such a Cinderella-like transition was not within the realm of probable facts; things just didn’t happen that way.

She recalled the awed exclamation of Eda when they had walked together along Warren Street on that evening in summer:  “How would you like to live there!”—­and hot with sudden embarrassment and resentment she had dragged her friend onward, to the corner.  In spite of its size, of the spaciousness of existence it suggested, the house had not appealed to her then.  Janet did not herself realize or estimate the innate if undeveloped sense of form she possessed, the artist-instinct that made her breathless on first beholding Silliston Common.  And then the vision of Silliston had still been bright; but now the light of a slender moon was as a gossamer silver veil through which she beheld the house, as in a stage setting, softening and obscuring its lines, lending it qualities of dignity and glamour that made it seem remote, unreal, unattainable.  And she felt a sudden, overwhelming longing, as though her breast would burst....

Through the drawn blinds the lights in the second storey gleamed yellow.  A dim lamp burned in the deep vestibule, as in a sanctuary.  And then, as though some supernaturally penetrating ray had pierced a square hole in the lower walls, a glimpse of the interior was revealed to her, of the living room at the north end of the house.  Two figures chased one another around the centre table—­Ditmar’s children!  Was Ditmar there?  Impelled irresistibly by a curiosity overcoming repugnance and fear, she went forward slowly across the street, gained the farther pavement, stepped over the concrete coping, and stood, shivering violently, on the lawn, feeling