“Isn’t that what you want—­you who are striking?” she asked.

“I think we want the things that you’ve got,” said Janet.  A phrase one of the orators had used came into her mind, “Enough money to live up to American standards”—­but she did not repeat it.  “Enough money to be free, to enjoy life, to have some leisure and amusement and luxury.”  The last three she took from the orator’s mouth.

“But surely,” exclaimed Mrs. Brocklehurst, “surely you want more than that!”

Janet shook her head.

“You asked me what we believed, the I.W.W., the syndicalists, and I told you you wouldn’t like it.  Well, we believe in doing away with you, the rich, and taking all you have for ourselves, the workers, the producers.  We believe you haven’t any right to what you’ve got, that you’ve fooled and cheated us out of it.  That’s why we women don’t care much about the vote, I suppose, though I never thought of it.  We mean to go on striking until we’ve got all that you’ve got.”

“But what will become of us?” said Mrs. Brocklehurst.  “You wouldn’t do away with all of us!  I admit there are many who don’t—­but some do sympathize with you, will help you get what you want, help you, perhaps, to see things more clearly, to go about it less—­ruthlessly.”

“I’ve told you what we believe,” repeated Janet.

“I’m so glad I came,” cried Mrs. Brocklehurst.  “It’s most interesting!  I never knew what the syndicalists believed.  Why, it’s like the French Revolution—­only worse.  How are you going to get rid of us? cut our heads off?”

Janet could not refrain from smiling.

“Let you starve, I suppose.”

“Really!” said Mrs. Brocklehurst, and appeared to be trying to visualize the process.  She was a true Athenian, she had discovered some new thing, she valued discoveries more than all else in life, she collected them, though she never used them save to discuss them with intellectuals at her dinner parties.  “Now you must let me come to Headquarters and get a glimpse of some of the leaders—­of Antonelli, and I’m told there’s a fascinating man named Rowe.”

“Rolfe,” Janet corrected.

“Rolfe—­that’s it.”  She glanced down at the diminutive watch, set with diamonds, on her wrist, rose and addressed Insall.  “Oh dear, I must be going, I’m to lunch with Nina Carfax at one, and she’s promised to tell me a lot of things.  She’s writing an article for Craven’s Weekly all about the strike and the suffering and injustice—­she says it’s been horribly misrepresented to the public, the mill owners have had it all their own way.  I think what you’re doing is splendid, Brooks, only—­” here she gave him an appealing, rather commiserating look—­“only I do wish you would take more interest in—­in underlying principles.”

Insall smiled.

“It’s a question of brains.  You have to have brains to be a sociologist,” he answered, as he held up for her the fur coat.  With a gesture of gentle reproof she slipped into it, and turned to Janet.