In a rather nervous voice Mildred explained our errand.  “Mother,” she said, “I cannot tell you anything about this young lady, and I have come to ask if you will take her on my recommendation.”

“My dear child,” said the Mother, “that would be utterly against our rule.  Not to know who the young lady is, where she comes from, why she is here, and whether she is married or single or a widow—­it is quite impossible.”

Mildred, looking confused and ashamed, said: 

“She can afford to pay a little.”

“That makes no difference.”

“But I thought that in exceptional cases . . .”

“There can be no exceptional cases, Sister.  If the young lady is married and can say that her husband consents, or single and can give us assurance that her father or guardian agrees, or a widow and can offer satisfactory references . . .”

Mildred looked across at me, but I shook my head.

“In that case there seems to be nothing more to say,” said the Mother, and rising without ceremony she walked with us to the door.

Our next call was at the headquarters of a home which was neither Catholic nor Protestant, but belonged, Mildred said, to a kind of Universal Church, admitting inmates of all denominations.

It was in a busy thoroughfare and had the appearance of a business office.  After Mildred had written her name and the object of our visit on a slip of paper we were taken up in a lift to another office with an open safe, where a man in a kind of uniform (called a Commissioner) was signing letters and cheques.

The Commissioner was at first very courteous, especially to me, and I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was mistaking me for something quite other than I was until Mildred explained our errand, and then his manner changed painfully.

“What you ask is against all our regulations,” he said.  “Secrecy implies something to hide, and we neither hide anything nor permit anything to be hidden.  In fact our system requires that we should not only help the woman, but punish the man by making him realise his legal, moral, and religious liability for his wrong-doing.  Naturally we can only do this by help of the girl, and if she does not tell us at the outset who and what the partner of her sin has been and where he is to be found. . . .”

I was choking with shame and indignation, and rising to my feet I said to Mildred: 

“Let us go, please.”

“Ah, yes, I know,” said the Commissioner, with a superior smile, “I have seen all this before.  The girl nearly always tries to shield the guilty man.  But why should she?  It may seem generous, but it is really wicked.  It is a direct means of increasing immorality.  The girl who protects the author of her downfall is really promoting the ruin of another woman, and if. . . .”

Thinking of Martin I wanted to strike the smug Pharisee in the face, and in order to conquer that unwomanly impulse I hurried out of the office, and into the street, leaving poor Mildred to follow me.