“I’d give anything to be an author!” she cried.

“It’s a hard life,” he assured her.  “We have to go about seeking inspiration from others.”

“Is that why you came to Hampton?”

“Well, not exactly.  It’s a queer thing about inspiration, you only find it when you’re not looking for it.”

She missed the point of this remark, though his eyes were on her.  They were not like Rolfe’s eyes, insinuating, possessive; they had the anomalistic quality, of being at once personal and impersonal, friendly, alight, evoking curiosity yet compelling trust.

“And you didn’t tell me,” he reproached her, “that you were at I.W.W.  Headquarters.”

A desire for self-justification impelled her to exclaim:  “You don’t believe in Syndicalism—­and yet you’ve come here to feed these children!”

“Oh, I think I understand the strike,” he said.

“How?  Have you seen it?  Have you heard the arguments?”

“No.  I’ve seen you.  You’ve explained it.”

“To Mrs. Brocklehurst?”

“It wasn’t necessary,” he replied—­and immediately added, in semi-serious apology:  “I thought it was admirable, what you said.  If she’d talked to a dozen syndicalist leaders, she couldn’t have had it put more clearly.  Only I’m afraid she doesn’t know the truth when she hears it.”

“Now you’re making fun of me!”

“Indeed I’m not,” he protested.

“But I didn’t give any of the arguments, any of the—­philosophy,” she pronounced the word hesitatingly.  “I don’t understand it yet as well as I should.”

“You are it,” he said.  “It’s not always easy to understand what we are —­it’s generally after we’ve become something else that we comprehend what we have been.”

And while she was pondering over this one of the ladies who had been waiting on the table came toward Insall.

“The children have finished, Brooks,” she informed him.  “It’s time to let in the others.”

Insall turned to Janet.  “This is Miss Bumpus—­and this is Mrs. Maturin,” he said.  “Mrs. Maturin lives in Silliston.”

The greeting of this lady differed from that of Mrs. Brocklehurst.  She, too, took Janet’s hand.

“Have you come to help us?” she asked.

And Janet said:  “Oh, I’d like to, but I have other work.”

“Come in and see us again,” said Insall, and Janet, promising, took her leave....

“Who is she, Brooks?” Mrs. Maturin asked, when Janet had gone.

“Well,” he answered, “I don’t know.  What does it matter?”

Mrs. Maturin smiled.

“I should say that it did matter,” she replied.  “But there’s something unusual about her—­where did you find her?”

“She found me.”  And Insall explained.  “She was a stenographer, it seems, but now she’s enlisted heart and soul with the syndicalists,” he added.

“A history?” Mrs. Maturin queried.  “Well, I needn’t ask—­it’s written on her face.”