“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.

“He’s the worst of the lot,” Rolfe said angrily.  “If it weren’t for him, we’d have this strike won to-day.  He owns this town, he’s run it to suit himself, He stiffens up the owners and holds the other mills in line.  He’s a type, a driver, the kind of man we must get rid of.  Look at him —­he lives in luxury while his people are starving.”

“Get rid of!” repeated Janet, in an odd voice.

“Oh, I don’t mean to shoot him,” Rolfe declared.  “But he may get shot, for all I know, by some of these slaves he’s made desperate.”

“They wouldn’t dare shoot him,” Janet said.  “And whatever he is, he isn’t a coward.  He’s stronger than the others, he’s more of a man.”

Rolfe looked at her curiously.

“What do you know about him?” he asked.

“I—­I know all about him.  I was his stenographer.”

“You!  His stenographer!  Then why are you herewith us?”

“Because I hate him!” she cried vehemently.  “Because I’ve learned that it’s true—­what you say about the masters—­they only think of themselves and their kind, and not of us.  They use us.”

“He tried to use you!  You loved him!”

“How dare you say that!”

He fell back before her anger.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he exclaimed.  “I was jealous—­I’m jealous of every man you’ve known.  I want you.  I’ve never met a woman like you.”

They were the very words Ditmar had used!  She did not answer, and for a while they walked along in silence, leaving Warren Street and cutting across the city until they canoe in sight of the Common.  Rolfe drew nearer to her.

“Forgive me!” he pleaded.  “You know I would not offend you.  Come, we’ll have supper together, and I will teach you more of what you have to know.”