gaoler in a brigand's cave bring a prisoner scraps of sweeter food and
drink when the talk of her death and the thought of her youth had made
him feel tenderly. Only that morning he had padded up behind Ellen and
set a white parcel by her typewriter. "Here's some taiblet for you,
lassie," he had said, and had laid a loving, clumsy hand on her
shoulder. What had Mr. Philip been saying now? And she did so want to be
well spoken of. But there was worse than that--something so bad that she
would not allow her mind to harbour any visual image of it, but thought
of it in a harsh, short sentence. _"When Mr. Morrison went out of the
room and we were left alone he got up and set the door ajar...."_
Something weak and little in her cried out, "Oh, God, stop Mr. Philip
being so cruel to me or I shall die!" and something fiercer said, "I
will kill him...."

There was a roar of applause, and she found that Mrs. Ormiston had
finished her speech. This was another iniquity to be charged against Mr.
Philip. The thought of him had robbed her of heaven knows how much of
the wisdom of her idol, and it might be a year or more before Mrs.
Ormiston came to Edinburgh again. She could have cried as she clapped,
but fortunately there was Mrs. Mark Lyle yet to speak. She watched the
advance to the edge of the platform of that tall, beautiful figure in
the shining dress which it would have been an understatement to call
sky-blue, unless one predicated that the sky was Italian, and rejoiced
that nature had so appropriately given such a saint a halo of gold hair.
Then came the slow, clear voice building a crystal bridge of argument
between the platform and the audience, and formulating with an
indignation that was fierce, yet left her marmoreal, an indictment
against the double standard of morality and the treatment of unmarried
mothers.