"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 him. 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