If St. George had found awaiting him a gold throne encircled by kneeling elephants he could have been no more amazed.  Not a word had been said about the purpose of his visit, and not a word to the warden; there was simply this miraculous opening of the barred door.  St. George breathlessly footed across the rotunda and down the dim opposite hall.  There was a mistake, that was evident; but for the moment St. George was going to propose no reform.  Their steps echoed in the empty corridor that extended the entire length of the great building in an odour of unspeakable soap and superior disinfectants; and it was not until they reached a stair at the far end that the old man halted.

“Top o’ the steps,” he hoarsely volunteered, blinking his little buckle eyes, “first door to the left.  My back’s bad.  I won’t go up.”

St. George, inhumanely blessing the circumstance, slipped something in the old man’s hand and sprang up the stairs.

The first door at the left stood ajar.  St. George looked in and saw a circle of bonnets and white curls clouded around the edge of the room, like witnesses.  The Readers’ Guild was about leaving; almost in the same instant, with that soft lift and touch which makes a woman’s gown seem sewed with vowels and sibilants, they all arose and came tapping across the bare floor.  At their head marched a woman with such a bright bonnet, and such a tinkle of ornaments on her gown that at first sight she quite looked like a lamp.  It was she whom St. George approached.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” he said, “is this the Readers’ Guild?”

There was nothing in St. George’s grave face and deferential stooping of shoulders to betray how his heart was beating or what a bound it gave at her amazing reply.

“Ah,” she said, “how do you do?”—­and her manner had that violent absent-mindedness which almost always proves that its possessor has trained a large family of children—­“I am so glad that you can be with us to-day.  I am Mrs. Manners—­forgive me,” she besought with perfectly self-possessed distractedness, “I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten your name.”

“My name is St. George,” he answered as well as he could for virtual speechlessness.

The other members of the Guild were issuing from the room, and Mrs. Manners turned.  She had a fashion of smiling enchantingly, as if to compensate her total lack of attention.

“Ladies,” she said, “this is Mr. St. George, at last.”

Then she went through their names to him, and St. George bowed and caught at the flying end of the name of the woman nearest him, and muttered to them all.  The one nearest was a Miss Bella Bliss Utter, a little brown nut of a woman with bead eyes.

“Ah, Mr. St. George,” said Miss Utter rapidly, “it has been a wonderful meeting.  I wish you might have been with us.  Fortunately for us you are just in time for our third floor council.”