“Praddy soon got into touch with the authorities, but for some reason they wouldn’t pass on a letter or let me come and see you, till to-day.  But here I am, and here I’m goin’ to stay—­with Praddy—­till they lets you out.  I’m told that if you be’ave yourself they’ll let me send you a passel of food, once a week.  Think of that!  My! won’t I find some goodies, and pate de foie gras.  I’ll come here once a month, as often as they’ll let me, till I gets you out.  ’N after that, we’ll leave this ’orrid, ’yprocritical old country and live ’appily at my Villa, or travel a bit.  Fortunately I’ve plenty of money.  Bein’ over here I’ve bin rearranging my investments a bit.  Fact is, I ’ad a bit of a scare this autumn.  They say in Belgium, War is comin’.  Talkin’ to this same German—­He’s always pumpin’ me about the Suffragettes so I occasionally put a question or so to ’im, ’e knowing ‘what’s, what’ in the money market—­’e says to me just before I come over, ’What’s your English proverb, Madame Varennes, about ‘avin’ all your eggs in one basket?  Is all your money in English and Belgian securities?’ I says ‘Chiefly Belgian and German and Austrian, and some I’ve giv’ to me daughter to do as she likes with.’  ‘Well’ ’e says, ‘friend speakin’ to friend, you’ve giv’ me several good tips this autumn,’ he says.  ’Now I’ll give you one in return.  Sell out your Austrian investments—­there’s goin’ to be a big war in the Balkans next year and as like as not we shall be here in Belgium.  Sell out most of yer Belgian stock and put all your money into German funds.  They’ll be safe there, come what may.’  I thanked ’im; but I haven’t quite done what he suggested.  I’m takin’ all my money out of Austrian things and all but Ten thousand out of Belgian funds.  I’m leavin’ my German stock as it was, but I’m puttin’ Forty thousand pounds—­I’ve got Sixty thousand altogether—­all yours some day—­into Canadian Pacifics and Royal Mail—­people ’ll always want steamships—­and New Zealand Five per cents.  I don’t like the look of things in old England nor yet on the Continent.  Now me time’s up.  Keep up your heart, old girl; it’ll soon be over, specially if you don’t play the fool and rile the prison people or start that silly hunger strike and ruin your digestion.  G—­good-bye; and G-God b-bless you, my darlin’” added Mrs. Warren relapsing into tears and the conventional prayer, of common humanity, which always hopes there may be a pitiful Deity, somewhere in Cosmos.

Going out into the corridor, she attempted to press a sovereign into the wardress’s hard palm.  The latter indignantly repudiated the gift and said if Mrs. Warren tried on such a thing again, her visits would be stopped.  But her indignation was very brief.  She was carrying Honoria’s flowers at the time, and as she put them on the slab in Vivie’s cell, she remarked that say what you liked, there was nothing to come up to a mother, give her a mother rather than a man any day.