“I’m not sure, sir,” said the man. “I think it’s a Socialist meeting.” (He was, of course, not missing the little comedy. I wondered what he thought!) “A Socialist meeting?” said van Tuiver; then, to his wife: “You don’t want to stay for that!” Again Sylvia astonished me. “I’d like to very much,” she answered simply. He made no reply. I saw him stare at her, and then I saw his glance take me in. I sat in a corner as inconspicuous as I could make myself. I wondered whether I was a sempstress or a tutor, and whether either of these functionaries were introduced, and whether they shook hands or not. Mrs. Frothingham had taken her stand at the base of Washington’s statue. Had she by any chance identified the tall and immaculate gentleman who stood beside the automobile? Before she had said three sentences I made sure that she had done so, and I was appalled at her audacity. “Fellow citizens,” she began--“fellow-buccaneers of Wall Street.” And when the mild laughter had subsided: “What I have to say is going to be addressed to one individual among you--the American millionaire. I assume there is one present--if no actual millionaire, then surely several who are destined to be, and not less than a thousand who aspire to be. So hear me, Mr. Millionaire,” this with a smile, which gave you a sense of a reserve fund of energy and good humour. She had the crowd with her from the start--all but one. I stole a glance at the millionaire, and saw that he was not smiling. “Won’t you get in?” asked his wife, and he answered coldly: “No, I’ll wait till you’ve had enough.”