In the mood in which she found herself his self-confidence, his aggressiveness continued to inspire and even to agitate her, to compel her to accept his point of view.
"Why," he continued, "I trust you as I never trusted anybody else. I've told you that before. Ever since you've been here you've made life a different thing for me--just by your being here. I don't know what I'd do without you. You've got so much sense about things--about people,--and I sometimes think you've got almost the same feeling about these mills that I have. You didn't tell me you went through the mills with Caldwell the other day," he added, accusingly.
"I--I forgot," said Janet. "Why should I tell--you?" She knew that all thought of Holster had already slipped from his mind. She did not look up. "If you're not going to finish your letters," she said, a little faintly, "I've got some copying to do."
"You're a deep one," he said. And as he turned to the pile of correspondence she heard him sigh. He began to dictate. She took down his sentences automatically, scarcely knowing what she was writing; he was making love to her as intensely as though his words had been the absolute expression of his desire instead of the commonplace mediums of commercial intercourse. Presently he stopped and began fumbling in one of the drawers of his desk.
"Where is the memorandum I made last week for Percy and Company?"
"Isn't it there?" she asked.
But he continued to fumble, running through the papers and disarranging them until she could stand it no longer.
"You never know where to find anything," she declared, rising and darting around the desk and bending over the drawer, her deft fingers rapidly separating the papers. She drew forth the memorandum triumphantly.
"There!" she exclaimed. "It was right before your eyes."
As she thrust it at him his hand closed over hers. She felt him drawing her, irresistibly.
"Janet!" he said. "For God's sake--you're killing me--don't you know it?
I can't stand it any longer!"
"Don't!" she whispered, terror-stricken, straining away from him. "Mr. Ditmar--let me go!"
A silent struggle ensued, she resisting him with all the aroused strength and fierceness of her nature. He kissed her hair, her neck,--she had never imagined such a force as this, she felt herself weakening, welcoming the annihilation of his embrace.
"Mr. Ditmar!" she cried. "Somebody will come in."
Her fingers sank into his neck, she tried to hurt him and by a final effort flung herself free and fled to the other side of the room.
"You little--wildcat!" she heard him exclaim, saw him put his handkerchief to his neck where her fingers had been, saw a red stain on it. "I'll have you yet!"
But even then, as she stood leaning against the wall, motionless save for the surging of her breast, there was about her the same strange, feral inscrutableness. He was baffled, he could not tell what she was thinking. She seemed, unconquered, to triumph over her disarray and the agitation of her body. Then, with an involuntary gesture she raised her hands to her hair, smoothing it, and without seeming haste left the room, not so much as glancing at him, closing the door behind her.
She reached her table in the outer office and sat down, gazing out of the window. The face of the world--the river, the mills, and the bridge--was changed, tinged with a new and unreal quality. She, too, must be changed. She wasn't, couldn't be the same person who had entered that room of Ditmar's earlier in the afternoon! Mr. Caldwell made a commonplace remark, she heard herself answer him. Her mind was numb, only her body seemed swept by fire, by emotions--emotions of fear, of anger, of desire so intense as to make her helpless. And when at length she reached out for a sheet of carbon paper her hand trembled so she could scarcely hold it. Only by degrees was she able to get sufficient control of herself to begin her copying, when she found a certain relief in action--her hands flying over the keys, tearing off the finished sheets, and replacing them with others. She did not want to think, to decide, and yet she knew--something was trying to tell her that the moment for decision had come. She must leave, now. If she stayed on, this tremendous adventure she longed for and dreaded was inevitable.
Fear and fascination battled within her. To run away was to deny life; to remain, to taste and savour it. She had tasted it--was it sweet?--that sense of being swept away, engulfed by an elemental power beyond them both, yet in them both? She felt him drawing her to him, and she struggling yet inwardly longing to yield. And the scarlet stain on his handkerchief--when she thought of that her blood throbbed, her face burned.
At last the door of the inner office opened, and Ditmar came out and stood by the rail. His voice was queer, scarcely recognizable.
"Miss Bumpus--would you mind coming into my room a moment, before you leave?" he said.
She rose instantly and followed him, closing the door behind her, but standing at bay against it, her hand on the knob.
"I'm not going to touch you--you needn't be afraid," he said. Reassured by the unsteadiness of his voice she raised her eyes to perceive that his face was ashy, his manner nervous, apprehensive, conciliatory,--a Ditmar she had difficulty in recognizing. "I didn't mean to frighten, to offend you," he went on. "Something got hold of me. I was crazy, I couldn't help it--I won't do it again, if you'll stay. I give you my word."
She did not reply. After a pause he began again, repeating himself.
"I didn't mean to do it. I was carried away--it all happened before I knew. I--I wouldn't frighten you that way for anything in the world."
Still she was silent.
"For God's sake, speak to me!" he cried. "Say you forgive me--give me another chance!"
But she continued to gaze at him with widened, enigmatic eyes--whether of reproach or contempt or anger he could not say. The situation transcended his experience. He took an uncertain step toward her, as though half expecting her to flee, and stopped.
