“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.
Perhaps the most disconcerting characteristic of that complex affair, the human organism, is the lack of continuity of its moods. The soul, so called, is as sensitive to physical conditions as a barometer: affected by lack of sleep, by smells and sounds, by food, by the weather—whether a day be sapphire or obsidian. And the resolutions arising from one mood are thwarted by the actions of the next. Janet had observed this phenomenon, and sometimes, when it troubled her, she thought herself the most inconsistent and vacillating of creatures. She had resolved, far instance, before she fell asleep, to leave the Chippering Mill, to banish Ditmar from her life, to get a position in Boston, whence she could send some of her wages home: and in the morning, as she made her way to the office, the determination gave her a sense of peace and unity. But the northwest wind was blowing. It had chased away the mist and the clouds, the smoke from Canada. The sun shone with a high brilliancy, the elms of the Common cast sharp, black shadow-patterns on the pavements, and when she reached the office and looked out of his window she saw the blue river covered with quicksilver waves chasing one another across the current. Ditmar had not yet returned to Hampton. About ten o'clock, as she was copying out some figures for Mr. Price, young Mr. Caldwell approached her. He had a Boston newspaper in his hand.