The food was better, the wardresses were less harsh, the chaplains a little more endurable, though still the worst feature in the prison personnel, with their unreasoning Bibliolatry, their contemptuous patronage, their lack of Christian pity—­Christ had never spoken to them, Vivie often thought—­their snobbishness.  The chaplain of her imprisonment became quite chummy when he learnt that she had been a Third Wrangler at Cambridge, knew Lady Feenix, and had lived in Kensington prior to committing the offences for which she was imprisoned.  However this helped to alleviate her dreary seclusion from the world as he occasionally dropped fragments of news as to what was going on outside, and he got her books through the prison library that were not evangelical pap.

One day when she had been in prison two months she had a great surprise—­a visit from her mother.  Strictly speaking this was only to last fifteen minutes, but the wardress who had conceived a liking for her intimated that she wouldn’t look too closely at her watch.  Honoria came too—­with Mrs. Warren—­but after kissing her friend and leaving some beautiful flowers (which the wardress took away at once with pretended sternness and brought back in a vase after the visitors had left) Honoria with glistening eyes and a smile that was all tremulous sweetness, intimated that Mrs. Warren had so much to say that she, Honoria, was not going to stay more than that one minute.

Mrs. Warren had indeed so much to impart in the precious half hour that it was one long gabbled monologue.

“When I heard you’d got into trouble, my darling, I was put about.  Some’ow I’d never thought of your being pinched and acshally sent to prison.  It was in the Belgian papers, and a German friend of mine—­Oh! quite proper I assure you!  He’s a Secretary of their legation at Brussels and ages ago he used to be one of my clients when the Hotel had a different name.  Well, he was full of it.  ‘Madam,’ ’e said, ’your English women are splendid.  They’re going to bring about a revolt, you’ll see, and that, an’ your Ulster movement ‘ll give you a lot of trouble next year.’

“Well:  I wrote at once to Praddy, givin’ him an order on my London agents, ’case he should want cash for your defence.  I offered to come over meself, but he replied that for the present I’d better keep away.  Soon as I heard you was sent to prison I come over and went straight to Praddy.  My!  He was good.  He made me put up with him, knowin’ I wanted to live quiet and keep away from the old set.  ‘There’s my parlour-maid,’ ’e says, ’sort of housekeeper to me—­good sort too, but wants a bit of yumourin.’  You’ll fix it up with her,’ he says.  And I jolly soon did.  I give her to begin with a good tip, an’ I said:  ’Look ’ere, my gal—­she’s forty-five I should think—­Every one’s in trouble some time or other in their lives, and I’m in trouble now, if you like.  And the day’s come,’ I said, ‘when all women ought to stick by one another.’  ’Pears she’s always had the highest opinion of you; very different, you was, from some of ’er master’s friends.  I says ’Right-o; then now we know where we are.’