"Oh no, I'm not," Mrs. Maturin retorted confidently. "If you won't talk about it, I will, I have no shame. And this girl has it--this thing I'm trying to express. She's modern to her finger tips, and yet she's extraordinarily American--in spite of her modernity, she embodies in some queer way our tradition. She loves our old houses at Silliston--they make her feel at home--that's her own expression."
"Did she say that?"
"Exactly. And I know she's of New England ancestry, she told me so.
What I can't make out is, why she joined the I.W.W. That seems so contradictory."
"Perhaps she was searching for light there," Insall hazarded. "Why don't you ask her?"
"I don't know," replied Mrs. Maturin, thoughtfully. "I want to, my curiosity almost burns me alive, and yet I don't. She isn't the kind you can ask personal questions of--that's part of her charm, part of her individuality. One is a little afraid to intrude. And yet she keeps coming here--of course you are a sufficient attraction, Brooks. But I must give her the credit of not flirting with you."
"I've noticed that, too," said Insall, comically.
"She's searching for light," Mrs. Maturin went on, struck by the phrase.
"She has an instinct we can give it to her, because we come from an institution of learning. I felt something of the kind when I suggested her establishing herself in Silliston. Well, she's more than worth while experimenting on, she must have lived and breathed what you call the `movie atmosphere' all her life, and yet she never seems to have read and absorbed any sentimental literature or cheap religion. She doesn't suggest the tawdry. That part of her, the intellectual part, is a clear page to be written upon."
"There's my chance," said Insall.
"No, it's my chance--since you're so cynical."
"I'm not cynical," he protested.
"I don't believe you really are. And if you are, there may be a judgment upon you," she added playfully. "I tell you she's the kind of woman artists go mad about. She has what sentimentalists call temperament, and after all we haven't any better word to express dynamic desires. She'd keep you stirred up, stimulated, and you could educate her."
"No, thanks, I'll leave that to you. He who educates a woman is lost.
But how about Syndicalism and all the mysticism that goes with it?
There's an intellectual over at Headquarters who's been talking to her about Bergson, the life-force, and the World-We-Ourselves-Create."
Mrs. Maturin laughed.
"Well, we go wrong when we don't go right. That's just it, we must go some way. And I'm sure, from what I gather, that she isn't wholly satisfied with Syndicalism."
"What is right?" demanded Insall.
"Oh, I don't intend to turn her over to Mr. Worrall and make a sociologist and a militant suffragette out of her. She isn't that kind, anyhow. But I could give her good literature to read--yours, for instance," she added maliciously.
"You're preposterous, Augusta," Insall exclaimed.
"I may be, but you've got to indulge me. I've taken this fancy to her--of course I mean to see more of her. But--you know how hard it is for me, sometimes, since I've been left alone."
Insall laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder.
"I remember what you said the first day I saw her, that the strike was in her," Mrs. Maturin continued. "Well, I see now that she does express and typify it--and I don't mean the `labour movement' alone, or this strike in Rampton, which is symptomatic, but crude. I mean something bigger--and I suppose you do--the protest, the revolt, the struggle for self-realization that is beginning to be felt all over the nation, all over the world today, that is not yet focussed and self-conscious, but groping its way, clothing itself in any philosophy that seems to fit it. I can imagine myself how such a strike as this might appeal to a girl with a sense of rebellion against sordidness and lack of opportunity--especially if she has had a tragic experience. And sometimes I suspect she has had one."
"Well, it's an interesting theory," Insall admitted indulgently.
"I'm merely amplifying your suggestions, only. you won't admit that they are yours. And she was your protegee." "And you are going to take her off my hands." "I'm not so sure," said Mrs. Maturin.
