calmness she apparently experienced to be false: the calmness of
fatality, because she was obeying a complicated impulse stronger than
herself--an impulse that at times seemed mere curiosity. Somewhere,
removed from her immediate consciousness, a storm was raging; she was
aware of a disturbance that reached her faintly, like the distant
throbbing of the looms she heard when she turned from Faber into West
Street She had not been able to eat any supper. That throbbing of the
looms in the night! As it grew louder and louder the tension within her
increased, broke its bounds, set her heart to throbbing too--throbbing
wildly. She halted, and went on again, precipitately, but once more
slowed her steps as she came to West Street and the glare of light at the
end of the bridge; at a little distance, under the chequered shadows of
the bare branches, she saw something move--a man, Ditmar. She stood
motionless as he hurried toward her.

"You've come! You've forgiven me?" he asked.

"Why were you--down there?" she asked.

"Why? Because I thought--I thought you wouldn't want anybody to know--"

It was quite natural that he should not wish to be seen; although she had
no feeling of guilt, she herself did not wish their meeting known. She
resented the subterfuge in him, but she made no comment because his
perplexity, his embarrassment were gratifying to her resentment, were
restoring her self-possession, giving her a sense of power.

"We can't stay here," he went on, after a moment. "Let's take a little
walk--I've got a lot to say to you. I want to put myself right." He tried
to take her arm, but she avoided him. They started along the canal in the