perhaps we ought to, it might be a little fairer to the public," he said.
"Besides, I am a carpenter, a better carpenter than a writer.."

"I'd give anything to be an author!" she cried.

"It's a hard life," he assured her. "We have to go about seeking
inspiration from others."

"Is that why you came to Hampton?"

"Well, not exactly. It's a queer thing about inspiration, you only find
it when you're not looking for it."

She missed the point of this remark, though his eyes were on her. They
were not like Rolfe's eyes, insinuating, possessive; they had the
anomalistic quality, of being at once personal and impersonal, friendly,
alight, evoking curiosity yet compelling trust.

"And you didn't tell me," he reproached her, "that you were at I.W.W.
Headquarters."

A desire for self-justification impelled her to exclaim: "You don't
believe in Syndicalism--and yet you've come here to feed these children!"

"Oh, I think I understand the strike," he said.

"How? Have you seen it? Have you heard the arguments?"

"No. I've seen you. You've explained it."