im. He could get nothing more out of her.

"You don't understand me--you never will!" she cried, and burst into
tears--tears of rage she tried in vain to control. The world was black
with his ignorance. She hated herself, she hated him. Her sobs shook her
convulsively, and she scarcely heard him as he walked beside her along
the empty road, pleading and clumsily seeking to comfort her. Once or
twice she felt his hand on her shoulders.... And then, unlooked for
and unbidden, pity began to invade her. Absurd to pity him! She fought
against it, but the thought of Ditmar reduced to abjectness gained
ground. After all, he had tried to be generous, he had done his best, he
loved her, he needed her--the words rang in her heart. After all, he
did not realize how could she expect him to realize? and her imagination
conjured up the situation in a new perspective. Her sobs gradually
ceased, and presently she stopped in the middle of the road and regarded
him. He seemed utterly miserable, like a hurt child whom she longed to
comfort. But what she said was:--"I ought to be going home."

"Not yet!" he begged. "It's early. You say I don't understand you,
Janet--my God, I wish I did! It breaks me all up to see you cry like
that."

"I'm sorry," she said, after a moment. "I--I can't make you understand.
I guess I'm not like anybody else I'm queer--I can't help it. You must
let me go, I only make you unhappy."

"Let you go!" he cried--and then in utter self-forgetfulness she yielded
her lips to his. A sound penetrated the night, she drew back from
his arms and stood silhouetted against the glare of the approaching
headlight of a trolley car, and as it came roaring down on them she
hailed it. Ditmar seized her arm.

"You're not going--now?" he said hoarsely.

"I must," she whispered. "I want to be alone--I want to think. You must
let me."

"I'll see you to-morrow?"

"I don't know--I want to think. I'm--I'm tired."

The brakes screamed as the car came joltingly to a stop. She flew up the
steps, glancing around to see whether Ditmar had followed her, and saw
him still standing in the road. The car was empty of passengers, but
the conductor must have seen her leaving a man in this lonely spot. She
glanced at his face, white and pinched and apathetic--he must have seen
hundreds of similar episodes in the course of his nightly duties. He
was unmoved as he took her fare. Nevertheless, at the thought that these
other episodes might res