Not a word had
been said about the purpose of his visit, and not a word to the
warden; there was simply this miraculous opening of the barred door.
St. George breathlessly footed across the rotunda and down the dim
opposite hall. There was a mistake, that was evident; but for the
moment St. George was going to propose no reform. Their steps echoed
in the empty corridor that extended the entire length of the great
building in an odour of unspeakable soap and superior disinfectants;
and it was not until they reached a stair at the far end that the
old man halted.
"Top o' the steps," he hoarsely volunteered, blinking his little
buckle eyes, "first door to the left. My back's bad. I won't go up."
St. George, inhumanely blessing the circumstance, slipped something
in the old man's hand and sprang up the stairs.
The first door at the left stood ajar. St. George looked in and saw
a circle of bonnets and white curls clouded around the edge of the
room, like witnesses. The Readers' Guild was about leaving; almost
in the same instant, with that soft lift and touch which makes a
woman's gown seem sewed with vowels and sibilants, they all arose
and came tapping across the bare floor.
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