“You must let me see more of you, my dear,” she said.  “I’m at the best hotel, I can’t remember the name, they’re all so horrible—­but I’ll be here until to-morrow afternoon.  I want to find out everything.  Come and call on me.  You’re quite the most interesting person I’ve met for a long time—­I don’t think you realize how interesting you are.  Au revoir!” She did not seem to expect any reply, taking acquiescence for granted.  Glancing once more at the rows of children, who had devoured their meal in an almost uncanny silence, she exclaimed, “The dears!  I’m going to send you a cheque, Brooks, even if you have been horrid to me—­you always are.”

“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..”