“I hate you!” she said.  She did not raise her voice, but the deliberate, concentrated conviction she put into the sentence gave it the dynamic quality of a bullet.  And save for the impact of it—­before which he physically recoiled—­its import was momentarily without meaning.

“What?” he exclaimed, stupidly.

“I might have known you never meant to marry me,” she went on.  Her hands were busy with the buttons of her coat.

“All you want is to use me, to enjoy me and turn me out when you get tired of me—­the way you’ve done with other women.  It’s just the same with these mill hands, they’re not human beings to you, they’re—­they’re cattle.  If they don’t do as you like, you turn them out; you say they can starve for all you care.”

“For God’s sake, what do you mean?” he demanded.  “What have I done to you, Janet?  I love you, I need you!”

“Love me!” she repeated.  “I know how men of your sort love—­I’ve seen it—­I know.  As long as I give you what you want and don’t bother you, you love me.  And I know how these workers feel,” she cried, with sudden, passionate vehemence.  “I never knew before, but I know now.  I’ve been with them, I marched up here with them from the Clarendon when they battered in the gates and smashed your windows—­and I wanted to smash your windows, too, to blow up your mill.”

“What are you saying?  You came here with the strikers? you were with that mob?” asked Ditmar, astoundedly.

“Yes, I was in that mob.  I belong there, with them, I tell you—­I don’t belong here, with you.  But I was a fool even then, I was afraid they’d hurt you, I came into the mill to find you, and you—­and you you acted as if you’d never seen me before.  I was a fool, but I’m glad I came—­I’m glad I had a chance to tell you this.”

“My God—­won’t you trust me?” he begged, with a tremendous effort to collect himself.  “You trusted me yesterday.  What’s happened to change you?  Won’t you tell me?  It’s nothing I’ve done—­I swear.  And what do you mean when you say you were in that mob?  I was almost crazy when I came back and found they’d been here in this mill—­can’t you understand?  It wasn’t that I didn’t think of you.  I’d been worrying about you all day.  Look at this thing sensibly.  I love you, I can’t get along without you—­I’ll marry you.  I said I would, I meant it I’ll marry you just as soon as I can clean up this mess of a strike.  It won’t take long.”

“Don’t touch me!” she commanded, and he recoiled again.  “I’ll tell you where I’ve been, if you want to know,—­I’ve been to see my sister in—­in a house, in Boston.  I guess you know what kind of a house I mean, you’ve been in them, you’ve brought women to them,—­just like the man that brought her there.  Would you marry me now—­with my sister there?  And am I any different from her?  You you’ve made me just like her.”  Her voice had broken, now, into furious, uncontrolled weeping—­to which she paid no heed.