If a human being in such an enviable position as that of agent of the Chippering Mill can be regarded as property, it might be said that Mr. Claude Ditmar belonged to the Chipperings of Boston, a family still owning a controlling interest in the company.  His loyalty to them and to the mill he so ably conducted was the great loyalty of his life.  For Ditmar, a Chippering could do no wrong.  It had been the keen eye of Mr. Stephen Chippering that first had marked him, questioned him, recognized his ability, and from the moment of that encounter his advance had been rapid.  When old Stephen had been called to his fathers, Ditmar’s allegiance was automatically, as it were, transferred to the two sons, George and Worthington, already members of the board of directors.  Sometimes Ditmar called on them at their homes, which stood overlooking the waters of the Charles River Basin.  The attitude toward him of the Chipperings and their wives was one of an interesting adjustment of feudalism to democracy.  They were fond of him, grateful to him, treating him with a frank camaraderie that had in it not the slightest touch of condescension, but Ditmar would have been the first to recognize that there were limits to the intimacy.  They did not, for instance—­no doubt out of consideration—­invite him to their dinner parties or take him to their club, which was not the same as that to which he himself belonged.  He felt no animus.  Nor would he, surprising though it may seem, have changed places with the Chipperings.  At an early age, and quite unconsciously, he had accepted property as the ruling power of the universe, and when family was added thereto the combination was nothing less than divine.

There were times, especially during the long winters, when life became almost unbearable for Janet, and she was seized by a desire to run away from Fillmore Street, from the mills, from Hampton itself.  Only she did not know where to go, or how to get away.  She was convinced of the existence in the world of delightful spots where might be found congenial people with whom it would be a joy to talk.  Fillmore Street, certainly, did not contain any such.  The office was not so bad.  It is true that in the mornings, as she entered West Street, the sight of the dark facade of the fortress-like structure, emblematic of the captivity in which she passed her days, rarely failed to arouse in her sensations of oppression and revolt; but here, at least, she discovered an outlet for her energies; she was often too busy to reflect, and at odd moments she could find a certain solace and companionship in the river, so intent, so purposeful, so beautiful, so undisturbed by the inconcinnity, the clatter and confusion of Hampton as it flowed serenely under the bridges and between the mills toward the sea.  Toward the sea!