The woman’s beautiful eyes were filled with distress, but she shook her head.

“Your name—­name—­name?” St. George repeated earnestly, but she had only the same answer.  “Can you not tell me where you live?” St. George persisted, and she made no other sign.

“New York?” went on St. George patiently.  “New York?  Do you live in New York?”

There was a sudden gleam in the woman’s eyes.  She extended her hands quickly in unmistakable appeal.  Then swiftly she caught up a hymn book, tore at its fly-leaf, and made the movement of writing.  In an instant St. George had thrust a pencil in her hand and she was tracing something.

He waited feverishly.  The organ had droned through the hymn and the women broke into song, with loose lips and without restraint, as street boys sing.  He saw them casting curious, sullen glances, and the Readers’ Guild whispering among themselves.  Miss Bella Bliss Utter, looking as distressed as a nut can look, nodded, and Mrs. Manners shook her head and they meant the same thing.  Then St. George saw the attendant in the red waist descend from the platform and make her way toward him, the little American flag rising and falling on her breast.  He unhesitatingly stepped in the aisle to meet her, determined to prevent, if possible, her suspicion of the message.  “Is it the barbarism of a gentleman,” Amory had once propounded, “or is it the gentleman-like manners of a barbarian which makes both enjoy over-stepping a prohibition?”

“I compliment you,” St. George said gravely, with his deferential stooping of the shoulders.  “The women are perfectly trained.  This, of course, is due to you.”

The hard face of the woman softened, but St. George thought that one might call her very facial expression nasal; she smiled with evident pleasure, though her purpose remained unshaken.

“They do pretty good,” she admitted, “but visitors ain’t best for ’em.  I’ll have to request you”—­St. George vaguely wished that she would say “ask”—­“not to talk to any of ’em.”

St. George bowed.

“It is a great privilege,” he said warmly if a bit incoherently, and held her in talk about an institution of the sort in Canada where the women inmates wore white, the managers claiming that the effect upon their conduct was perceptible, that they were far more self-respecting, and so on in a labyrinth of defensive detail.  “What do you think of the idea?” he concluded anxiously, manfully holding his ground in the aisle.

“I think it’s mostly nonsense,” returned the woman tartly, “a big expense and a sight of work for nothing.  And now permit me to say—­”

St. George vaguely wished that she would say “let.”

“I agree with you,” he said earnestly, “nothing could be simpler and neater than these calico gowns.”

The attendant looked curiously at him.

“They are gingham,” she rejoined, “and you’ll excuse me, I hope, but visitors ain’t supposed to converse with the inmates.”