emble hers, her face flamed--she grew hot all
over. What should she do now? She could not think. Confused with her
shame was the memory of a delirious joy, yet no sooner would she give
herself up, trembling, to this memory when in turn it was penetrated by
qualms of resentment, defiling its purity. Was Ditmar ashamed of her?...
When she reached home and had got into bed she wept a little, but
her tears were neither of joy nor sorrow. Her capacity for both was
exhausted. In this strange mood she fell asleep nor did she waken when,
at midnight, Lise stealthily crept in beside her.

CHAPTER X

Ditmar stood staring after the trolley car that bore Janet away until
it became a tiny speck of light in the distance. Then he started to walk
toward Hampton; in the unwonted exercise was an outlet for the pent-up
energy her departure had thwarted; and presently his body was warm with
a physical heat that found its counterpart in a delicious, emotional
glow of anticipation, of exultant satisfaction. After all, he could not
expect to travel too fast with her. Had he not at least gained a signal
victory? When he remembered her lips--which she had indubitably given
him!--he increased his stride, and in what seemed an incredibly brief
time he had recrossed the bridge, covered the long residential blocks of
Warren Street, and gained his own door.

The house was quiet, the children having gone to bed, and he groped his
way through the dark parlour to his den, turning on the electric switch,
sinking into an armchair, and lighting a cigar. He liked this room of
his, which still retained something of that flavour of a refuge and
sanctuary it had so eminently possessed in the now forgotten days of
matrimonial conflict. One of the few elements of agreement he had
held in common with the late Mrs. Ditmar was a similarity of taste in
household decoration, and they had gone together to a great emporium in
Boston to choose the furniture and fittings. The lamp in the centre of
the table was a bronze column supporting a hemisphere of heavy red and
emerald glass, the colours woven into an intricate and bizarre design,
after the manner of the art nouveau--so the zealous salesman had
informed them. Cora Ditmar, when exhibiting this lamp to admiring
visitors, had remembered the phrase, though her pronunciation of it,
according to the standard of the Sorbonne, left something to be desired.
The table and chairs, of heavy, shiny oak marvellously and