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