"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 children as they
ate. "He has such a splendid, `out-door' look don't you think? And he's
clever with his hands he bought an old abandoned farmhouse in Silliston
and made it all over himself until it looks as if one of our
great-great-grandfathers had just stepped out of it to shoot an Indian
only much prettier. And his garden is a dream. It's the most unique place
I've ever known."

Janet blushed deeply as she recalled how she had mistaken him for a
carpenter: she was confused, overwhelmed, she had a sudden longing to