Nedda put her hand to her throat.  The warder beside her said in a chatty voice: 

“That’s where the ’ards takes their exercise, miss.  You want to see a man called Tryst, waitin’ trial, I think.  We’ve had a woman here to see him, and a lady in blue, once or twice.”

“My aunt.”

“Ah! just so.  Laborer, I think—­case of arson.  Funny thing; never yet found a farm-laborer that took to prison well.”

Nedda shivered.  The words sounded ominous.  Then a little flame lit itself within her.

“Does anybody ever ‘take to’ prison?”

The warder uttered a sound between a grunt and chuckle.

“There’s some has a better time here than they have out, any day.  No doubt about it—­they’re well fed here.”

Her aunt’s words came suddenly into Nedda’s mind:  ’Liberty’s a glorious feast!’ But she did not speak them.

“Yes,” the warder proceeded, “some o’ them we get look as if they didn’t have a square meal outside from one year’s end to the other.  If you’ll just wait a minute, miss, I’ll fetch the man down to you.”

In a bare room with distempered walls, and bars to a window out of which she could see nothing but a high brick wall, Nedda waited.  So rapid is the adjustment of the human mind, so quick the blunting of human sensation, that she had already not quite the passion of pitiful feeling which had stormed her standing under that archway.  A kind of numbness gripped her nerves.  There were wooden forms in this room, and a blackboard, on which two rows of figures had been set one beneath the other, but not yet added up.

The silence at first was almost deathly.  Then it was broken by a sound as of a heavy door banged, and the shuffling tramp of marching men—­louder, louder, softer—­a word of command—­still softer, and it died away.  Dead silence again!  Nedda pressed her hands to her breast.  Twice she added up those figures on the blackboard; each time the number was the same.  Ah, there was a fly—­two flies!  How nice they looked, moving, moving, chasing each other in the air.  Did flies get into the cells?  Perhaps not even a fly came there—­nothing more living than walls and wood!  Nothing living except what was inside oneself!  How dreadful!  Not even a clock ticking, not even a bird’s song!  Silent, unliving, worse than in this room!  Something pressed against her leg.  She started violently and looked down.  A little cat!  Oh, what a blessed thing!  A little sandy, ugly cat!  It must have crept in through the door.  She was not locked in, then, anyway!  Thus far had nerves carried her already!  Scrattling the little cat’s furry pate, she pulled herself together.  She would not tremble and be nervous.  It was disloyal to Derek and to her purpose, which was to bring comfort to poor Tryst.  Then the door was pushed open, and the warder said: 

“A quarter of an hour, miss.  I’ll be just outside.”