"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. George bowed.

"It is a great privilege," he said warmly if a bit incoherently,
and held her in talk about an institution of the sort in Canada
where the women inmates wore white, the managers claiming that the
effect upon their conduct was perceptible, that they were far more
self-respecting, and so on in a labyrinth of defensive detail. "What
do you think of the idea?" he concluded anxiously, manfully holding
his ground in the aisle.

"I think it's mostly nonsense," returned the woman tartly, "a big
expense and a sight of work for nothing. And now permit me to say--"

St. George vaguely wished that she would say "let."

"I agree with you," he said earnestly, "nothing could be simpler and
neater than these calico gowns."

The attendant looked curiously at him.

"They are gingham," she rejoined, "and you'll excuse me, I hope, but
visitors ain't supposed to converse with the inmates."

St. George was vanquished by "converse."

"I beg your pardon," he said, "pray forgive me. I will say good-by