nd sumptuous person seemed
intimate with him. Could it be possible that he belonged to her class?
"Mrs. Brocklehurst, Miss Bumpus."

Mrs. Brocklehurst focussed her attention on Janet, through the lorgnette,
but let it fall immediately, smiling on her brightly, persuasively.

"How d'ye do?" she said, stretching forth a slender arm and taking the
girl's somewhat reluctant hand. "Do come and sit down beside me and tell
me about everything here. I'm sure you know--you look so intelligent."

Her friend from Silliston shot at Janet an amused but fortifying glance
and left them, going down to the tables. Somehow that look of his helped
to restore in her a sense of humour and proportion, and her feeling
became one of curiosity concerning this exquisitely soigneed being of an
order she had read about, but never encountered--an order which her newly
acquired views declared to be usurpers and parasites. But despite her
palpable effort to be gracious perhaps because of it--Mrs. Brocklehurst
had an air about her that was disconcerting! Janet, however, seemed
composed as she sat down.

"I'm afraid I don't know very much. Maybe you will tell me something,
first."

"Why, certainly," said Mrs. Brocklehurst, sweetly when she had got her
breath.

"Who is that man?" Janet asked.

"Whom do you mean--Mr. Insall?"

"Is that his name? I didn't know. I've seen him twice, but he never told
me."

"Why, my dear, do you mean to say you haven't heard of Brooks Insall?"

"Brooks Insall." Janet repeated the name, as her eyes sought his figure
between the tables. "No."

"I'm sure I don't know why I should have expected you to hear of him,"
declared the lady, repentantly. "He's a writer--an author." And at this
Janet gave a slight exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "You admire
writers? He's done some delightful things."

"What does he write about?" Janet asked.

"Oh, wild flowers and trees and mountains and streams, and birds and
humans--he has a wonderful insight into people."

Janet was silent. She was experiencing a swift twinge of jealousy, of
that familiar rebellion against her limitations.

"You must read them, my dear," Mrs. Brocklehurst continued softly, in
musical tones. "They are wonderful, they have such distinction. He's
walked, I'm told, over every foot of New England, talking to the farmers
and their wives and--all sorts of people." She, too, paused to let her
gaze linger upon Insall laughing and chatting with the chi