Her friend from Silliston shot at Janet an amused but fortifying glance and left them, going down to the tables. Somehow that look of his helped to restore in her a sense of humour and proportion, and her feeling became one of curiosity concerning this exquisitely soigneed being of an order she had read about, but never encountered--an order which her newly acquired views declared to be usurpers and parasites. But despite her palpable effort to be gracious perhaps because of it--Mrs. Brocklehurst had an air about her that was disconcerting! Janet, however, seemed composed as she sat down.
"I'm afraid I don't know very much. Maybe you will tell me something, first."
"Why, certainly," said Mrs. Brocklehurst, sweetly when she had got her breath.
"Who is that man?" Janet asked.
"Whom do you mean--Mr. Insall?"
"Is that his name? I didn't know. I've seen him twice, but he never told me."
"Why, my dear, do you mean to say you haven't heard of Brooks Insall?"
"Brooks Insall." Janet repeated the name, as her eyes sought his figure between the tables. "No."
"I'm sure I don't know why I should have expected you to hear of him," declared the lady, repentantly. "He's a writer--an author." And at this Janet gave a slight exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "You admire writers? He's done some delightful things."
"What does he write about?" Janet asked.
"Oh, wild flowers and trees and mountains and streams, and birds and humans--he has a wonderful insight into people."
Janet was silent. She was experiencing a swift twinge of jealousy, of that familiar rebellion against her limitations.
"You must read them, my dear," Mrs. Brocklehurst continued softly, in musical tones. "They are wonderful, they have such distinction. He's walked, I'm told, over every foot of New England, talking to the farmers and their wives and--all sorts of people." She, too, paused to let her gaze linger upon Insall laughing and chatting with the children as they ate. "He has such a splendid, `out-door' look don't you think? And he's clever with his hands he bought an old abandoned farmhouse in Silliston and made it all over himself until it looks as if one of our great-great-grandfathers had just stepped out of it to shoot an Indian only much prettier. And his garden is a dream. It's the most unique place I've ever known."
Janet blushed deeply as she recalled how she had mistaken him for a carpenter: she was confused, overwhelmed, she had a sudden longing to leave the place, to be alone, to think about this discovery. Yet she wished to know more.
"But how did he happen to come here to Hampton--to be doing this?" she asked.
"Well, that's just what makes him interesting, one never can tell what he'll do. He took it into his head to collect the money to feed these children; I suppose he gave much of it himself. He has an income of his own, though he likes to live so simply."
"This place--it's not connected with any organization?" Janet ejaculated.
"That's the trouble, he doesn't like organizations, and he doesn't seem to take any interest in the questions or movements of the day," Mrs.
Brocklehurst complained. "Or at least he refuses to talk about them, though I've known him for many years, and his people and mine were friends. Now there are lots of things I want to learn, that I came up from New York to find out. I thought of course he'd introduce me to the strike leaders, and he tells me he doesn't know one of them. Perhaps you know them," she added, with sudden inspiration.
"I'm only an employee at Strike Headquarters," Janet replied, stiffening a little despite the lady's importuning look--which evidently was usually effective.
"You mean the I.W.W.?"
"Yes."
Meanwhile Insall had come up and seated himself below them on the edge of the platform.
"Oh, Brooks, your friend Miss Bumpus is employed in the Strike Headquarters!" Mrs. Brocklehurst cried, and turning to Janet she went on.
"I didn't realize you were a factory girl, I must say you don't look it."
Once more a gleam of amusement from Insall saved Janet, had the effect of compelling her to meet the affair somewhat after his own manner. He seemed to be putting the words into her mouth, and she even smiled a little, as she spoke.
"You never can tell what factory girls do look like in these days," she observed mischievously.
"That's so," Mrs. Brocklehurst agreed, "we are living in such extraordinary times, everything topsy turvy. I ought to have realized--it was stupid of me--I know several factory girls in New York, I've been to their meetings, I've had them at my house--shirtwaist strikers."
She assumed again the willowy, a position, her fingers clasped across her knee, her eyes supplicatingly raised to Janet. Then she reached out her hand and touched the I.W.W. button. "Do tell me all about the Industrial Workers, and what they believe," she pleaded.
"Well," said Janet, after a slight pause, "I'm afraid you won't like it much. Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm so interested--especially in the women of the movement. I feel for them so, I want to help--to do something, too. Of course you're a suffragist."
"You mean, do I believe in votes for women? Yes, I suppose I do."
"But you must," declared Mrs. Brocklehurst, still sweetly, but with emphasis. "You wouldn't be working, you wouldn't be striking unless you did."
"I've never thought about it," said Janet.
"But how are you working girls ever going to raise wages unless you get the vote? It's the only way men ever get anywhere--the politicians listen to them." She produced from her bag a gold pencil and a tablet.
"Mrs. Ned Carfax is here from Boston--I saw her for a moment at the hotel she's been here investigating for nearly three days, she tells me. I'll have her send you suffrage literature at once, if you'll give me your address."
"You want a vote?" asked Janet, curiously, gazing at the pearl earrings.
"Certainly I want one."
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated Mrs. Brocklehurst.
"Yes. You must have everything you want."
