gain. Hannah's pessimism would persist as far as the altar, and
beyond!

On the whole, such was Janet's notion of the Deity, though deep within
her there may have existed a hope that he might be outwitted; that, by
dint of energy and brains, the fair things of life might be obtained
despite a malicious opposition. And she loved Ditmar. This must be love
she felt, this impatience to see him again, this desire to be with him,
this agitation possessing her so utterly that all day long she had dwelt
in an unwonted state like a somnambulism: it must be love, though not
resembling in the least the generally accepted, virginal ideal. She
saw him as he was, crude, powerful, relentless in his desire; his very
faults appealed. His passion had overcome his prudence, he had not
intended to propose, but any shame she felt on this score was put to
flight by a fierce exultation over the fact that she had brought him to
her feet, that he wanted her enough to marry her. It was wonderful to
be wanted like that! But she could not achieve the mental picture of
herself as Ditmar's wife--especially when, later in the evening, she
walked up Warren Street and stood gazing at his house from the opposite
pavement. She simply could not imagine herself living in that house
as its mistress. Notwithstanding the testimony of the movies, such a
Cinderella-like transition was not within the realm of probable facts;
things just didn't happen that way.

She recalled the awed exclamation of Eda when they had walked together
along Warren Street on that evening in summer: "How would you like to
live there!"--and hot with sudden embarrassment and resentment she had
dragged her friend onward, to the corner. In spite of its size, of the
spaciousness of existence it suggested, the house had not appealed
to her then. Janet did not herself realize or estimate the innate if
undeveloped sense of form she possessed, the artist-instinct that made
her breathless on first beholding Silliston Common. And then the vision
of Silliston had still been bright; but now the light of a slender moon
was as a gossamer silver veil through which she beheld the house, as in
a stage setting, softening and obscuring its lines, lending it qualities
of dignity and glamour that made it seem remote, unreal, unattainable.
And she felt a sudden, overwhelming longing, as though her breast would
burst....

Through the drawn blinds the lights in the second storey gleamed yellow.
A dim lamp