“In Silliston!” she exclaimed.  “Why—­what are you doing here?”

“Well—­this instant I was just looking at those notepapers, wondering which I should choose if I really had good taste.  But it’s very puzzling—­isn’t it?—­when one comes from the country.  Now that saffron with the rough edges is very—­artistic.  Don’t you think so?”

She looked at him and smiled, though his face was serious.

“You don’t really like it, yourself,” she informed him.

“Now you’re reflecting on my taste,” he declared.

“Oh no—­it’s because I saw the fence you were making.  Is it finished yet?”

“I put the last pineapple in place the day before Christmas.  Do you remember the pineapples?”

She nodded.  “And the house? and the garden?”

“Oh, those will never be finished.  I shouldn’t have anything more to do.”

“Is that—­all you do?” she asked.

“It’s more important than anything else.  But you have you been back to Silliston since I saw you?  I’ve been waiting for another call.”

“You haven’t even thought of me since,” she was moved to reply in the same spirit.

“Haven’t I?” he exclaimed.  “I wondered, when I came up here to Hampton, whether I mightn’t meet you—­and here you are!  Doesn’t that prove it?”

She laughed, somewhat surprised at the ease with which he had diverted her, drawn her out of the tense, emotional mood in which he had discovered her.  As before, he puzzled her, but the absence of any flirtatious suggestion in his talk gave her confidence.  He was just friendly.

“Sometimes I hoped I might see you in Hampton,” she ventured.

“Well, here I am.  I heard the explosion, and came.”

“The explosion!  The strike!” she exclaimed; suddenly enlightened.  “Now I remember!  You said something about Hampton being nitro-glycerine—­human nitro-glycerine.  You predicted this strike.”

“Did I? perhaps I did,” he assented.  “Maybe you suggested the idea.”

“I suggested it!  Oh no, I didn’t—­it was new to me, it frightened me at the time, but it started me thinking about a lot of things that had never occurred to me.”

“You might have suggested the idea without intending to, you know.  There are certain people who inspire prophecies—­perhaps you are one.”

His tone was playful, but she was quick to grasp at an inference—­since his glance was fixed on the red button she wore.

“You meant that I would explode, too!”

“Oh no—­nothing so terrible as that,” he disclaimed.  “And yet most of us have explosives stored away inside of us—­instincts, impulses and all that sort of thing that won’t stand too much bottling-up.”

“Yes, I’ve joined the strike.”  She spoke somewhat challengingly, though she had an uneasy feeling that defiance was somewhat out of place with him.  “I suppose you think it strange, since I’m not a foreigner and haven’t worked in the mills.  But I don’t see why that should make any difference if you believe that the workers haven’t had a chance.”