realize how interesting you are. Au revoir!" She
did not seem to expect any reply, taking acquiescence for granted.
Glancing once more at the rows of children, who had devoured their meal
in an almost uncanny silence, she exclaimed, "The dears! I'm going to
send you a cheque, Brooks, even if you have been horrid to me--you always
are."

"Horrid!" repeated Insall, "put it down to ignorance."

He accompanied her down the stairs. From her willowy walk a sophisticated
observer would have hazarded the guess that her search for an occupation
had included a course of lessons in fancy dancing.

Somewhat dazed by this interview which had been so suddenly forced upon
her, Janet remained seated on the platform. She had the perception to
recognize that in Mrs. Brocklehurst and Insall she had come in contact
with a social stratum hitherto beyond the bounds of her experience; those
who belonged to that stratum were not characterized by the possession of
independent incomes alone, but by an attitude toward life, a manner of
not appearing to take its issues desperately. Ditmar was not like that.
She felt convicted of enthusiasms, she was puzzled, rather annoyed and
ashamed. Insall and Mrs. Brocklehurst, different though they were, had
this attitude in common.... Insall, when he returned, regarded her
amusedly.

"So you'd like to exterminate Mrs. Brocklehurst?" he asked.

And Janet flushed. "Well, she forced me to say it."

"Oh, it didn't hurt her," he said.

"And it didn't help her," Janet responded quickly.

"No, it didn't help her," Insall agreed, and laughed.

"But I'm not sure it isn't true," she went on, "that we want what she's
got." The remark, on her own lips, surprised Janet a little. She had not
really meant to make it. Insall seemed to have the quality of forcing one
to think out loud.

"And what she wants, you've got," he told her.

"What have I got?"

"Perhaps you'll find out, some day."

"It may be too late," she exclaimed. "If you'd only tell me, it might
help."

"I think it's something you'll have to discover for yourself," he
replied, more gravely than was his wont.

She was silent a moment, and then she demanded: "Why didn't you tell me
who you were? You let me think, when I met you in Silliston that day,
that you were a carpenter. I didn't know you'd written books."

"You can't expect writers to wear uniforms, like policemen--though
perhaps we ought to, it might be a little fairer to the public,"