hands tightened on the rail; suddenly she let it go, and led
the way toward the unfrequented district of the south side. It was the
road to Silliston, but she had forgotten that. Ditmar, regaining her
side, continued his pleading. He spoke of his loneliness, which he had
never realized. He needed her. And she experienced an answering pang. It
still seemed incredible that he, too, who had so much, should feel that
gnawing need for human sympathy and understanding that had so often made
her unhappy. And because of the response his need aroused in her she did
not reflect whether he could fulfil her own need, whether he could
ever understand her; whether, at any time, she could unreservedly pour
herself out to him.

"I don't see why you want me," she interrupted him at last. "I've never
had any advantages, I don't know anything. I've never had a chance to
learn. I've told you that before."

"What difference does that make? You've got more sense than any woman I
ever saw," he declared.

"It makes a great deal of difference to me," she insisted--and the sound
of these words on her own lips was like a summons arousing her from
a dream. The sordidness of her life, its cruel lack of opportunity in
contrast with the gifts she felt to be hers, and on which he had
dwelt, was swept back into her mind. Self-pity, dignity, and inherent
self-respect struggled against her woman's desire to give; an inherited
racial pride whispered that she was worthy of the best, but because she
had lacked the chance, he refrained from offering her what he would have
laid at the feet of another woman.

"I'll give you advantages--there's nothing I wouldn't give you. Why
won't you come to me? I'll take care of you."

"Do you think I want to be taken care of?" She wheeled on him so swiftly
that he started back. "Is that what you think I want?"

"No, no," he protested, when he recovered his speech.

"Do you think I'm after--what you can give me?" she shot at him. "What
you can buy for me?"

To tell the truth, he had not thought anything about it, that was the
trouble. And her question, instead of enlightening him, only added to
his confusion and bewilderment.

"I'm always getting in wrong with you," he told her, pathetically.
"There isn't anything I'd stop at to make you happy, Janet, that's what
I'm trying to say. I'd go the limit."

"Your limit!" she exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. But she had become
inarticulate--cryptic, to h