“Nothing,” said Janet.  “Mr. Ditmar asked me to stay—­that was all.  He’d been away.”

“I was worried, I was going to make your father go down to the mill.  I’ve saved you some supper.”

“I don’t want much,” Janet told her, “I’m not hungry.”

“I guess you have to work too hard in that new place,” said Hannah, as she brought in the filled plate from the oven.

“Well, it seems to agree with her, mother,” declared Edward, who could always be counted on to say the wrong thing with the best of intentions.  “I never saw her looking as well—­why, I swan, she’s getting real pretty!”

Hannah darted at him a glance, but restrained herself, and Janet reddened as she tried to eat the beans placed before her.  The pork had browned and hardened at the edges, the gravy had spread, a crust covered the potatoes.  When her father resumed his reading of the Banner and her mother went back into the kitchen she began to speculate rather resentfully and yet excitedly why it was that this adventure with a man, with Ditmar, made her look better, feel better,—­more alive.  She was too honest to disguise from herself that it was an adventure, a high one, fraught with all sorts of possibilities, dangers, and delights.  Her promotion had been merely incidental.  Both her mother and father, did they know the true circumstances,—­that Mr. Ditmar desired her, was perhaps in love with her—­would be disturbed.  Undoubtedly they would have believed that she could “take care” of herself.  She knew that matters could not go on as they were, that she would either have to leave Mr. Ditmar or—­and here she baulked at being logical.  She had no intention of leaving him:  to remain, according to the notions of her parents, would be wrong.  Why was it that doing wrong agreed with her, energized her, made her more alert, cleverer, keying up her faculties? turned life from a dull affair into a momentous one?  To abandon Ditmar would be to slump back into the humdrum, into something from which she had magically been emancipated, symbolized by the home in which she sat; by the red-checked tablecloth, the ugly metal lamp, the cherry chairs with the frayed seats, the horsehair sofa from which the stuffing protruded, the tawdry pillow with its colours, once gay, that Lise had bought at a bargain at the Bagatelle....  The wooden clock with the round face and quaint landscape below—­the family’s most cherished heirloom—­though long familiar, was not so bad; but the two yellowed engravings on the wall offended her.  They had been wedding presents to Edward’s father.  One represented a stupid German peasant woman holding a baby, and standing in front of a thatched cottage; its companion was a sylvan scene in which certain wooden rustics were supposed to be enjoying themselves.  Between the two, and dotted with flyspecks, hung an insurance calendar on which was a huge head of a lady, florid, fluffy-haired, flirtatious.  Lise thought her beautiful.