“You mean,” said Janet, trembling, “that what happens to us makes us inclined to believe certain things?”

“Precisely,” agreed Mrs. Maturin, in admiration.  “But I must be honest with you, it was Brooks who made me see it.”

“But—­he never said that to me.  And I asked him once, almost the same question.”

“He never said it to me, either,” Mrs. Maturin confessed.  “He doesn’t tell you what he believes; I simply gathered that this is his idea.  And apparently the workers can only improve their condition by strikes, by suffering—­it seems to be the only manner in which they can convince the employers that the conditions are bad.  It isn’t the employers’ fault.”

“Not their fault!” Janet repeated.

“Not in a large sense,” said Mrs. Maturin.  “When people grow up to look at life in a certain way, from a certain viewpoint, it is difficult, almost impossible to change them.  It’s—­it’s their religion.  They are convinced that if the world doesn’t go on in their way, according to their principles, everything will be destroyed.  They aren’t inhuman.  Within limits everybody is more than willing to help the world along, if only they can be convinced that what they are asked to do will help.”

Janet breathed deeply.  She was thinking of Ditmar.

And Mrs. Maturin, regarding her, tactfully changed the subject.

“I didn’t intend to give you a lecture on sociology or psychology, my dear,” she said.  “I know nothing about them, although we have a professor who does.  Think over what I’ve said about coming to Silliston.  It will do you good—­you are working too hard here.  I know you would enjoy Silliston.  And Brooks takes such an interest in you,” she added impulsively.  “It is quite a compliment.”

“But why?” Janet demanded, bewildered.

“Perhaps it’s because you have—­possibilities.  You may be typewriting his manuscripts.  And then, I am a widow, and often rather lonely—­you could come in and read to me occasionally.”

“But—­I’ve never read anything.”

“How fortunate!” said Insall, who had entered the doorway in time to hear Janet’s exclamation.  “More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read.”

Mrs. Maturin laughed.  But Insall waved his hand deprecatingly.

“That isn’t my own,” he confessed.  “I cribbed it from a clever Englishman.  But I believe it’s true.”

“I think I’ll adopt her,” said Mrs. Maturin to Insall, when she had repeated to him the conversation.  “I know you are always convicting me of enthusiasms, Brooks, and I suppose I do get enthusiastic.”

“Well, you adopt her—­and I’ll marry her,” replied Insall, with a smile, as he cut the string from the last bundle of clothing.

“You might do worse.  It would be a joke if you did—!”

His friend paused to consider this preposterous possibility.  “One never can tell whom a man like you, an artist, will marry.”