king themselves into a fine
state of moral indignation over the laxity of the police in allowing
these women to air their vanity in public.

'Comin' here with tam-o'-shanters to tell us 'ow to do our business.'

'It's part o' wot I mean w'en I s'y old England's on the down gryde.'

'W'ich is the one in black--this end?' his companion asked, indicating
a refined-looking woman of forty or so. 'Is that Miss----?'

'Miss,' chipped in a young man of respectable appearance just behind.
'_Miss?_ Why, that's the mother o' the Gracchi,' and there was a little
ripple of laughter.

'Hasn't she got any of her jewels along with her to-day?' said another
voice.

'What do they mean?' demanded Mrs. Fox-Moore.

Vida shook her head. She herself was looking about for some one to ask.

'Isn't it queer that you and I have lived all this time in the world and
have never yet been in a mixed crowd before in all our lives?--never _as
a part of it_.'

'I think myself it's less strange we haven't done it before than that
we're doing it now. There's the woman selling things. Let us ask
her----'

They had noticed before a faded-looking personage who had been going
about on the fringe of the crowd with a file of propagandist literature
on her arm. Vida beckoned to her. She made her way with some difficulty
through the chaffing, jostling horde, saying steadily and with a kind of
cheerful doggedness--

'Leaflets! Citizenship of Women, by Lothian Scott! Labour Record! Prison
Experiences of Miss----'

'How much?' asked Miss Levering.

'What you like,' she answered.

Miss Levering took her change out in information. 'Can you tell me who
the speakers are?'

'Oh, yes.' The haggard face brightened before the task. 'That one is the
famous Miss Claxton.'

'With her face screwed up?'

'That's because the sun is in her eyes.'

'She isn't so bad-looking,' admitted Mrs. Fox-Moore.

'No; but just wait till she speaks!' The faded countenance of the woman
with the heavy pile of printed propaganda on her arm was so lit with
enthusiasm, that it, too, was almost good-looking, in the same way as
the younger, more regular face up there, frowning at the people, or the
sun, or the memory of wrongs.

'Is Miss Claxton some relation of yours?' asked Mrs. Fox-Moore.

'No, oh, no, I don't even know her. She hasn't been out of prison long.
The man in grey--he's Mr. Henry.'

'Out of prison! And Henry's the chairman, I suppose.'

'No; the chairman is