“Good-bye, Lise,” she said.  “I’ll come down again I’ll come down whenever you want me.”  Lise suddenly seized her and clung to her, sobbing.  For a while Janet submitted, and then, kissing her, gently detached herself.  She felt, indeed, pity for Lise, but something within her seemed to have hardened—­something that pity could not melt, possessing her and thrusting heron to action.  She knew not what action.  So strong was this thing that it overcame and drove off the evil spirits of that darkened house as she descended the stairs to join Mr. Tiernan, who opened the door for her to pass out.  Once in the street, she breathed deeply of the sunlit air.  Nor did she observe Mr. Tiernan’s glance of comprehension....  When they arrived at the North Station he said:—­“You’ll be wanting a bite of dinner, Miss Janet,” and as she shook her head he did not press her to eat.  He told her that a train for Hampton left in ten minutes.  “I think I’ll stay in Boston the rest of the day, as long as I’m here,” he added.

She remembered that she had not thanked him, she took his hand, but he cut her short.

“It’s glad I was to help you,” he assured her.  “And if there’s anything more I can do, Miss Janet, you’ll be letting me know—­you’ll call on Johnny Tiernan, won’t you?”

He left her at the gate.  He had intruded with no advice, he had offered no comment that she had come downstairs alone, without Lise.  His confidence in her seemed never to have wavered.  He had respected, perhaps partly imagined her feelings, and in spite of these now a sense of gratitude to him stole over her, mitigating the intensity of their bitterness.  Mr. Tiernan alone seemed stable in a chaotic world.  He was a man.

No sooner was she in the train, however, than she forgot Mr. Tiernan utterly.  Up to the present the mental process of dwelling upon her own experience of the last three months had been unbearable, but now she was able to take a fearful satisfaction in the evolving of parallels between her case and Lise’s.  Despite the fact that the memories she had cherished were now become hideous things, she sought to drag them forth and compare them, ruthlessly, with what must have been the treasures of Lise.  Were her own any less tawdry?  Only she, Janet, had been the greater fool of the two, the greater dupe because she had allowed herself to dream, to believe that what she had done had been for love, for light! because she had not listened to the warning voice within her!  It had always been on the little, unpremeditated acts of Ditmar that she had loved to linger, and now, in the light of Lise’s testimony, of Lise’s experience, she saw them all as false.  It seemed incredible, now, that she had ever deceived herself into thinking that Ditmar meant to marry her, that he loved her enough to make her his wife.  Nor was it necessary to summon and marshal incidents to support this view, they came of themselves, crowding one another, a cumulative and appalling array of evidence,