arness, as by the nearness
of one of an alien region. St. George felt this directly he spoke to
her. He shook off the impression and set himself practically to the
matter in hand. He had never had greater need of his faculty for
directness. His low tone was quite matter-of-fact, his manner
deferentially reassuring.

"I think," he said softly and without preface, "that I can help you.
Will you let me help you? Will you tell me quickly your name?"

The woman's beautiful eyes were filled with distress, but she shook
her head.

"Your name--name--name?" St. George repeated earnestly, but she had
only the same answer. "Can you not tell me where you live?" St.
George persisted, and she made no other sign.

"New York?" went on St. George patiently. "New York? Do you live in
New York?"

There was a sudden gleam in the woman's eyes. She extended her hands
quickly in unmistakable appeal. Then swiftly she caught up a hymn
book, tore at its fly-leaf, and made the movement of writing. In an
instant St. George had thrust a pencil in her hand and she was
tracing something.

He waited feverishly. The organ had droned through the hymn and the
women broke into song, with loose lips and without restraint, as
street boys sing. He saw them casting curious, sullen glances, and
the Readers' Guild whispering among themselves. Miss Bella Bliss
Utter, looking as distressed as a nut can look, nodded, and Mrs.
Manners shook her head and they meant the same thing. Then St.
George saw the attendant in the red waist descend from the platform
and make her way toward him, the little American flag rising and
falling on her breast. He unhesitatingly stepped in the aisle to
meet her, determined to prevent, if possible, her suspicion of the
message. "Is it the barbarism of a gentleman," Amory had once
propounded, "or is it the gentleman-like manners of a barbarian
which makes both enjoy over-stepping a prohibition?"

"I compliment you," St. George said gravely, with his deferential
stooping of the shoulders. "The women are perfectly trained. This,
of course, is due to you."

The hard face of the woman softened, but St. George thought that one
might call her very facial expression nasal; she smiled with evident
pleasure, though her purpose remained unshaken.

"They do pretty good," she admitted, "but visitors ain't best for
'em. I'll have to request you"--St. George vaguely wished that she
would say "ask"--"not to talk to any of 'em."

St. Geo