“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.