Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her.  The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing.  Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day.  Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate.

He was no doubt doing his best to express the attitude of society toward these wearily heroic defendants, but he seemed to be merely rude and unfair to Ann Veronica.  He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him.  He resented being regarded as irregular.  He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated....  “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands.  “You silly creatures!  Ugh!  Fie upon you!” The court was crowded with people, for the most part supporters and admirers of the defendants, and the man with the light eyelashes was conspicuously active and omnipresent.

Ann Veronica’s appearance was brief and undistinguished.  She had nothing to say for herself.  She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector.  She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her.  On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses.  A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her.

She was interested by the swearing of the witnesses.  The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases.

“Have you anything to ask the witness?” asked the helpful inspector.

The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style.  She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No.”

“Well, Ann Veronica Smith,” the magistrate remarked when the case was all before him, “you’re a good-looking, strong, respectable gell, and it’s a pity you silly young wimmin can’t find something better to do with your exuberance.  Two-and-twenty!  I can’t imagine what your parents can be thinking about to let you get into these scrapes.”

Ann Veronica’s mind was filled with confused unutterable replies.

“You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings—­many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature.  I don’t suppose you could tell me even the derivation of suffrage if I asked you.  No! not even the derivation!  But the fashion’s been set and in it you must be.”