The brutality shocked Mr. Thorndike. For the woman he felt a thrill of sympathy, but at once saw that it was superfluous. From the secure and lofty heights of motherhood, Mrs. Bernard smiled down upon the assistant district attorney as upon a naughty child. She did not even deign a protest. She continued merely to smile. The smile reminded Thorndike of the smile on the face of a mother in a painting by Murillo he had lately presented to the chapel in the college he had given to his native town. “That son of yours,” repeated young Andrews, “is a leech. He’s robbed you, robbed his wife. Best thing I ever did for YOU was to send him up the river.” The mother smiled upon him beseechingly. “Could you give me a pass?” she said. Young Andrews flung up his hands and appealed to Thorndike. “Isn’t that just like a mother?” he protested. “That son of hers has broken her heart, tramped on her, cheated her; hasn’t left her a cent; and she comes to me for a pass, so she can kiss him through the bars! And I’ll bet she’s got a cake for him in that basket!” The mother laughed happily; she knew now she would get the pass. “Mothers,” explained Mr. Andrews, from the depth of his wisdom, “are all like that; your mother, my mother. If you went to jail, your mother would be just like that.” Mr. Thorndike bowed his head politely. He had never considered going to jail, or whether, if he did, his mother would bring him cake in a basket. Apparently there were many aspects and accidents of life not included in his experience. Young Andrews sprang to his feet, and, with the force of a hose flushing a gutter, swept his soiled visitors into the hall. “Come on,” he called to the Wisest Man, “the court is open.” In the corridors were many people, and with his eyes on the broad shoulders of the assistant district attorney, Thorndike pushed his way through them. The people who blocked his progress were of the class unknown to him. Their looks were anxious, furtive, miserable. They stood in little groups, listening eagerly to a sharp-faced lawyer, or, in sullen despair, eying each other. At a door a tipstaff laid his hand roughly on the arm of Mr. Thorndike. “That’s all right, Joe,” called young Mr. Andrews, “he’s with ME.” They entered the court and passed down an aisle to a railed enclosure in which were high oak chairs. Again, in his effort to follow, Mr. Thorndike was halted, but the first tipstaff came to his rescue. “All right,” he signalled, “he’s with Mr. Andrews.” Mr. Andrews pointed to one of the oak chairs. “You sit there,” he commanded, “it’s reserved for members of the bar, but it’s all right. You’re with ME.”