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.”

“We’ve no business to marry at all,” said Insall, laughing.  “I often wonder where that romantic streak will land you, Augusta.  But you do have a delightful time!”

“Don’t begrudge it me, it makes life so much more interesting,” Mrs. Maturin begged, returning his smile.  “I haven’t the faintest idea that you will marry her or any one else.  But I insist on saying she’s your type—­she’s the kind of a person artists do dig up and marry—­only better than most of them, far better.”

“Dig up?” said Insall.

“Well, you know I’m not a snob—­I only mean that she seems to be one of the surprising anomalies that sometimes occur in—­what shall I say?—­in the working-classes.  I do feel like a snob when I say that.  But what is it?  Where does that spark come from?  Is it in our modern air, that discontent, that desire, that thrusting forth toward a new light —­something as yet unformulated, but which we all feel, even at small institutions of learning like Silliston?”

“Now you’re getting beyond me.”

“Oh no, I’m not,” Mrs. Maturin retorted confidently.  “If you won’t talk about it, I will, I have no shame.  And this girl has it—­this thing I’m trying to express.  She’s modern to her finger tips, and yet she’s extraordinarily American—­in spite of her modernity, she embodies in some queer way our tradition.  She loves our old houses at Silliston—­they make her feel at home—­that’s her own expression.”

“Did she say that?”

“Exactly.  And I know she’s of New England ancestry, she told me so.  What I can’t make out is, why she joined the I.W.W.  That seems so contradictory.”

“Perhaps she was searching for light there,” Insall hazarded.  “Why don’t you ask her?”

“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Maturin, thoughtfully.  “I want to, my curiosity almost burns me alive, and yet I don’t.  She isn’t the kind you can ask personal questions of—­that’s part of her charm, part of her individuality.  One is a little afraid to intrude.  And yet she keeps coming here—­of course you are a sufficient attraction, Brooks.  But I must give her the credit of not flirting with you.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” said Insall, comically.