"Well, you drove me to it--you make me mad enough to say anything. Just because I went to Gruber's with Neva Lorrie and a couple of gentlemen--they were gentlemen all right, as much gentlemen as Ditmar--you come at me and tell me I'm all to the bad." She began to sob. "I'm as straight as you are. How was I to know the highball was stiff? Maybe I was tired--anyhow, it put me on the queer, and everything in the joint began to tango 'round me--and Neva came home with me."
Janet felt a surge of relief, in which were mingled anxiety and resentment: relief because she was convinced that Lise was telling the truth, anxiety because she feared for Lise's future, resentment because Ditmar had been mentioned. Still, what she had feared most had not come to pass. Lise left her abruptly, darting down a street that led to a back entrance of the Bagatelle, and Janet pursued her way. Where, she wondered, would it all end?
Lise had escaped so far, but drunkenness was an ominous sign. And "gentlemen"?
What kind of gentlemen had taken her sister to Gruber's? Would Ditmar do that sort of thing if he had a chance?
The pavement in front of the company boarding-houses by the canal was plastered with sodden leaves whipped from the maples by the driving rain in the night.
The sky above the mills was sepia. White lights were burning in the loom rooms. When she reached the vestibule Simmons, the watchman, informed her that Mr. Ditmar had already been there, and left for Boston.
Janet did not like to acknowledge to herself her disappointment on learning that Ditmar had gone to Boston. She knew he had had no such intention the night before; an accumulated mail and many matters demanding decisions were awaiting him; and his sudden departure seemed an act directed personally against her, in the nature of a retaliation, since she had offended and repulsed him. Through Lise's degrading act she had arrived at the conclusion that all adventure and consequent suffering had to do with Man--a conviction peculiarly maddening to such temperaments as Janet's. Therefore she interpreted her suffering in terms of Ditmar, she had looked forward to tormenting him again, and by departing he had deliberately balked and cheated her. The rain fell ceaselessly out of black skies, night seemed ever ready to descend on the river, a darkness--according to young Mr. Caldwell--due not to the clouds alone, but to forest fires many hundreds of miles away, in Canada.
As the day wore on, however, her anger gradually gave place to an extreme weariness and depression, and yet she dreaded going home, inventing things for herself to do; arranging and rearranging Ditmar's papers that he might have less trouble in sorting them, putting those uppermost which she thought he would deem the most important. Perhaps he would come in, late! In a world of impending chaos the brilliantly lighted office was a tiny refuge to which she clung. At last she put on her coat and rubbers, faring forth reluctantly into the wet.
At first when she entered the bedroom she thought it empty, though the gas was burning, and them she saw Lise lying face downward on the bed. For a moment she stood still, then closed the door softly.
"Lise," she said.
"What?"
Janet sat down on the bed, putting out her hand. Unconsciously she began to stroke Lise's hand, and presently it turned and tightened on her own.
"Lise," she said, "I understand why you--" she could not bring herself to pronounce the words "got drunk,"--"I understand why you did it. I oughtn't to have talked to you that way. But it was terrible to wake up and see you."
For awhile Lise did not reply. Then she raised herself, feeling her hair with an involuntary gesture, regarding her sister with a bewildered look, her face puckered. Her eyes burned, and under them were black shadows.
"How do you mean--you understand?" she asked slowly. "You never hit the booze."
Even Lise's language, which ordinarily offended her, failed to change her sudden impassioned and repentant mood. She was astonished at herself for this sudden softening, since she did not really love Lise, and all day she had hated her, wished never to see her again.
"No, but I can understand how it would be to want to," Janet said. "Lise, I guess we're searching--both of us for something we'll never find."
Lise stared at her with a contracted, puzzled expression, as of a person awaking from sleep, all of whose faculties are being strained toward comprehension.
"What do you mean?" she demanded. "You and me? You're all right--you've got no kick coming."
"Life is hard, it's hard on girls like us--we want things we can't have."
Janet was at a loss to express herself.
"Well, it ain't any pipe dream," Lise agreed. Her glance turned involuntarily toward the picture of the Olympian dinner party pinned on the wall. "Swells have a good time," she added.
"Maybe they pay for it, too," said Janet.
"I wouldn't holler about paying--it's paying and not getting the goods," declared Lise.
"You'll pay, and you won't get it. That kind of life is--hell," Janet cried.
Self-centered as Lise was, absorbed in her own trouble and present physical discomfort, this unaccustomed word from her sister and the vehemence with which it was spoken surprised and frightened her, brought home to her some hint of the terror in Janet's soul.
"Me for the water wagon," she said.
Janet was not convinced. She had hoped to discover the identity of the man who had taken Lise to Gruber's, but she did not attempt to continue the conversation. She rose and took off her hat.
"Why don't you go to bed?" she asked. "I'll tell mother you have a headache and bring in your supper."
"Well, I don't care if I do," replied Lise, gratefully.
