By the faint grey light of that bitter January morning Ditmar made his way to the mill.  In Faber Street dark figures flitted silently across the ghostly whiteness of the snow, and gathered in groups on the corners; seeking to avoid these, other figures hurried along the sidewalks close to the buildings, to be halted, accosted, pleaded with—­threatened, perhaps.  Picketing had already begun!  The effect of this pantomime of the eternal struggle for survivals which he at first beheld from a distance, was to exaggerate appallingly the emptiness of the wide street, to emphasize the absence of shoppers and vehicles; and a bluish darkness lurked in the stores, whose plate glass windows were frosted in quaint designs.  Where were the police?  It was not fear that Ditmar felt, he was galvanized and dominated by anger, by an overwhelming desire for action; physical combat would have brought him relief, and as he quickened his steps he itched to seize with his own hands these foreigners who had dared to interfere with his cherished plans, who had had the audacity to challenge the principles of his government which welcomed them to its shores.  He would have liked to wring their necks.  His philosophy, too, was environmental.  And beneath this wrath, stimulating and energizing it the more, was the ache in his soul from the loss for which he held these enemies responsible.  Two days ago happiness and achievement had both been within his grasp.  The only woman—­so now it seemed—­he had ever really wanted!  What had become of her?  What obscure and passionate impulse had led her suddenly to defy and desert him, to cast in her lot with these insensate aliens?  A hundred times during the restless, inactive hours of a sleepless night this question had intruded itself in the midst of his scheming to break the strike, as he reviewed, word by word, act by act, that almost incomprehensible revolt of hers which had followed so swiftly—­a final, vindictive blow of fate—­on that other revolt of the workers.  At moments he became confused, unable to separate the two.  He saw her fire in that other....  Her sister, she had said, had been disgraced; she had defied him to marry her in the face of that degradation—­and this suddenly had sickened him.  He had let her go.  What a fool he had been to let her go!  Had she herself been—!  He did not finish this thought.  Throughout the long night he had known, for a certainty, that this woman was a vital part of him, flame of his flame.  Had he never seen her he would have fought these strikers to their knees, but now the force of this incentive was doubled.  He would never yield until he had crushed them, until he had reconquered her.