The men at the reporter’s table lifted their eyebrows, smiled faintly, and leaned back to watch how she took her scolding.  One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly.  They had got all this down already—­they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time.  The stipendiary would have done it all very differently.

She found presently she was out of the dock and confronted with the alternative of being bound over in one surety for the sum of forty pounds—­whatever that might mean or a month’s imprisonment.

“Second class,” said some one, but first and second were all alike to her.  She elected to go to prison.

At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—­for Holloway had its quota already.  It was bad luck to go to Canongate.

Prison was beastly.  Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her.  Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her.  She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.  Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses.  She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used.  She was not allowed to bathe herself:  another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her.  Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate.  Her hair was washed for her also.  Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes.  The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean.  Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations.  She sat on the edge of the bed—­the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—­and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments.  She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by.  She meditated profoundly through several enormous cold hours on all that had happened and all that she had done since the swirl of the suffrage movement had submerged her personal affairs....

Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind.  She had imagined she had drowned them altogether.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

THOUGHTS IN PRISON

Part 1