Janet, yet she was silent. Mrs. Brocklehurst gazed at her solicitously.

"What are you thinking?" she urged--and it was Janet's turn to flush.

"I was just thinking that you seemed to have everything life has to give,
and yet--and yet you're not happy."

"Oh, I'm not unhappy," protested the lady. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. You, too, seem to be wanting something."

"I want to be of use, to count," said Mrs. Brocklehurst,--and Janet was
startled to hear from this woman's lips the very echo of her own desires.

Mrs. Brocklehurst's feelings had become slightly complicated. It is
perhaps too much to say that her complacency was shaken. She was, withal,
a person of resolution--of resolution taking the form of unswerving faith
in herself, a faith persisting even when she was being carried beyond her
depth. She had the kind of pertinacity that sever admits being out of
depth, the happy buoyancy that does not require to feel the bottom under
one's feet. She floated in swift currents. When life became
uncomfortable, she evaded it easily; and she evaded it now, as she gazed
at the calm but intent face of the girl in front of her, by a
characteristic inner refusal to admit that she had accidentally come in
contact with something baking. Therefore she broke the silence.

"Isn't that what you want--you who are striking?" she asked.

"I think we want the things that you've got," said Janet. A phrase one of
the orators had used came into her mind, "Enough money to live up to