o 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."

"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?"

"No