It had been said of St. George that when he was writing on space and was in need, buildings fell down before him to give him two columns on the first page; but any architectural manoeuvre could not have amazed him as did this.  And too, though there had been occasions when silence or an evasion would have meant bread to him, the temptation to both was never so strong as at that moment.  It cost St. George an effort, which he was afterward glad to remember having made, to turn to Mrs. Manners, who had that air of appointing committees and announcing the programme by which we always recognize a leader, and try to explain.

“I am afraid,” St. George said as they reached the stairs, “that you have mistaken me, Mrs. Manners.  I am not—­”

“Pray, pray do not mention it,” cried Mrs. Manners, shaking her little lamp-shade of a hat at him, “we make every allowance, and I am sure that none will be necessary.”

“But I am with the Evening Sentinel,” St. George persisted, “I am afraid that—­”

“As if one’s profession made any difference!” cried Mrs. Manners warmly.  “No, indeed, I perfectly understand.  We all understand,” she assured him, going over some papers in one hand and preparing to mount the stairs.  “Indeed, we appreciate it,” she murmured, “do we not, Miss Utter?”

The little brown nut seemed to crack in a capacious smile.

“Indeed, indeed!” she said fervently, accenting her emphasis by briefly-closed eyes.

“Hymn books.  Now, have we hymn books enough?” plaintively broke in Mrs. Manners.  “I declare, those new hymn books don’t seem to have the spirit of the old ones, no matter what any one says,” she informed St. George earnestly as they reached an open door.  In the next moment he stood aside and the Readers’ Guild filed past him.  He followed them.  This was pleasantly like magic.

They entered a large chamber carpeted and walled in the garish flowers which many boards of directors suppose will joy the cheerless breast.  There were present a dozen women inmates,—­sullen, weary-looking beings who seemed to have made abject resignation their latest vice.  They turned their lustreless eyes upon the visitors, and a portly woman in a red waist with a little American flag in a buttonhole issued to them a nasal command to rise.  They got to their feet with a starched noise, like dead leaves blowing, and St. George eagerly scanned their faces.  There were women of several nationalities, though they all looked raceless in the ugly uniforms which those same boards of directors consider de rigueur for the soul that is to be won back to the normal.  A little negress, with a spirit that soared free of boards of directors, had tried to tie her closely-clipped wool with bits of coloured string; an Italian woman had a geranium over her ear; and at the end of the last row of chairs, towering above the others, was a creature of a kind of challenging, unforgetable beauty whom, with a thrill of certainty, St. George realized to be her whom he had come to see.  So strong was his conviction that, as he afterward recalled, he even asked no question concerning her.  She looked as manifestly not one of the canaille of incorrigibles as, in her place, Lucrezia Borgia would have looked.