"Horrid!" repeated Insall, "put it down to ignorance."
He accompanied her down the stairs. From her willowy walk a sophisticated observer would have hazarded the guess that her search for an occupation had included a course of lessons in fancy dancing.
Somewhat dazed by this interview which had been so suddenly forced upon her, Janet remained seated on the platform. She had the perception to recognize that in Mrs. Brocklehurst and Insall she had come in contact with a social stratum hitherto beyond the bounds of her experience; those who belonged to that stratum were not characterized by the possession of independent incomes alone, but by an attitude toward life, a manner of not appearing to take its issues desperately. Ditmar was not like that.
She felt convicted of enthusiasms, she was puzzled, rather annoyed and ashamed. Insall and Mrs. Brocklehurst, different though they were, had this attitude in common.... Insall, when he returned, regarded her amusedly.
"So you'd like to exterminate Mrs. Brocklehurst?" he asked.
And Janet flushed. "Well, she forced me to say it."
"Oh, it didn't hurt her," he said.
"And it didn't help her," Janet responded quickly.
"No, it didn't help her," Insall agreed, and laughed.
"But I'm not sure it isn't true," she went on, "that we want what she's got." The remark, on her own lips, surprised Janet a little. She had not really meant to make it. Insall seemed to have the quality of forcing one to think out loud.
"And what she wants, you've got," he told her.
"What have I got?"
"Perhaps you'll find out, some day."
"It may be too late," she exclaimed. "If you'd only tell me, it might help."
"I think it's something you'll have to discover for yourself," he replied, more gravely than was his wont.
She was silent a moment, and then she demanded: "Why didn't you tell me who you were? You let me think, when I met you in Silliston that day, that you were a carpenter. I didn't know you'd written books."
"You can't expect writers to wear uniforms, like policemen--though perhaps we ought to, it might be a little fairer to the public," he said.
"Besides, I am a carpenter, a better carpenter than a writer.."
"I'd give anything to be an author!" she cried.
"It's a hard life," he assured her. "We have to go about seeking inspiration from others."
"Is that why you came to Hampton?"
"Well, not exactly. It's a queer thing about inspiration, you only find it when you're not looking for it."
She missed the point of this remark, though his eyes were on her. They were not like Rolfe's eyes, insinuating, possessive; they had the anomalistic quality, of being at once personel and impersonal, friendly, alight, evoking curiosity yet compelling trust.
"And you didn't tell me," he reproached her, "that you were at I.W.W.
Headquarters."
A desire for self-justification impelled her to exclaim: "You don't believe in Syndicalism--and yet you've come here to feed these children!"
"Oh, I think I understand the strike," he said.
"How? Have you seen it? Have you heard the arguments?"
"No. I've seen you. You've explained it."
"To Mrs. Brocklehurst?"
"It wasn't necessary," he replied--and immediately added, in semi-serious apology: "I thought it was admirable, what you said. If she'd talked to a dozen syndicalist leaders, she couldn't have had it put more clearly.
Only I'm afraid she doesn't know the truth when she hears it."
"Now you're making fun of me!"
"Indeed I'm not," he protested.
"But I didn't give any of the arguments, any of the--philosophy," she pronounced the word hesitatingly. "I don't understand it yet as well as I should."
"You are it," he said. "It's not always easy to understand what we are--it's generally after we've become something else that we comprehend what we have been."
And while she was pondering over this one of the ladies who had been waiting on the table came toward Insall.
"The children have finished, Brooks," she informed him. "It's time to let in the others."
Insall turned to Janet. "This is Miss Bumpus--and this is Mrs. Maturin," he said. "Mrs. Maturin lives in Silliston."
The greeting of this lady differed from that of Mrs. Brocklehurst. She, too, took Janet's hand.
"Have you come to help us?" she asked.
And Janet said: "Oh, I'd like to, but I have other work."
"Come in and see us again," said Insall, and Janet, promising, took her leave....
"Who is she, Brooks?" Mrs. Maturin asked, when Janet had gone.
"Well," he answered, "I don't know. What does it matter?"
Mrs. Maturin smiled.
"I should say that it did matter," she replied. "But there's something unusual about her--where did you find her?"
"She found me." And Insall explained. "She was a stenographer, it seems, but now she's enlisted heart and soul with the syndicalists," he added.
"A history?" Mrs. Maturin queried. "Well, I needn't ask--it's written on her face."
"That's all I know," said Insall.
"I'd like to know," said Mrs. Maturin. "You say she's in the strike?"
"I should rather put it that the strike is in her."
"What do you mean, Brooks?"
But Insall did not reply.
