sharpness of the air; and her thoughts were not
so much of Ditmar as of something beyond him, of which he was the medium.
She was going, not to meet him, but to meet that. When she reached the
office she felt weak, her fingers trembled as she took off her hat and
jacket and began to sort out the mail. And she had to calm herself with
the assurance that her relationship with Ditmar had undergone no change.
She had merely met him by the canal, and he had talked to her. That was
all. He had, of course, taken her arm: it tingled when she remembered it.
But when he suddenly entered the room her heart gave a bound. He closed
the door, he took off his hat, and stood gazing at her--while she
continued arranging letters. Presently she was forced to glance at him.
His bearing, his look, his confident smile all proclaimed that he, at
least, believed things to be changed. He glowed with health and vigour,
with an aggressiveness from which she shrank, yet found delicious.

"How are you this morning?" he said at last--this morning as
distinguished from all other mornings.

"I'm well, as usual," she answered. She herself was sometimes surprised
by her ability to remain outwardly calm.

"Why did you run away from me last night?"

"I didn't run away, I had to go home," she said, still arranging the
letters.

"We could have had a little walk. I don't believe you had to go home at
all. You just wanted an excuse to get away from me."

"I didn't need an excuse," she told him. He moved toward her, but she
took a paper from the desk and carried it to a file across the room.

"I thought we were going to be friends," he said.

"Being friends doesn't mean being foolish," she retorted. "And Mr.
Orcutt's waiting to see you."

"Let him wait."

He sat down at his desk, but his blood was warm, and he read the
typewritten words of the topmost letter of the pile without so much as
grasping the meaning of them. From time to time he glanced up at Janet as
she flitted about the room. By George, she was more desirable than he had
ever dared to imagine! He felt temporarily balked, but hopeful. On his
way to the mill he had dwelt with Epicurean indulgence on this sight of
her, and he had not been disappointed. He had also thought that he might
venture upon more than the mere feasting of his eyes, yet found an
inspiring alleviation in the fact that she by no means absolutely
repulsed him. Her attitude toward him had undergone a subtle
transformat