“They’re embroidered,” she replied, glancing down; “Aren’t they cunning?” She raised her skirts and uncovered slim, silk-sheathed calves. “Or do you disapprove of silk stockings?” He seemed slightly exasperated, bent his dark eyes on her piercingly. “Are you trying to make me out as criticizing you in any way, Edith?” “Not at all----” She paused. Bartholomew had uttered a grunt. She turned and saw that he had left his desk and was standing at the window. “What is it?” demanded Henry. “People,” said Bartholomew, and then after an instant: “Whole jam of them. They’re coming from Sixth Avenue.” “People?” The fat man pressed his nose to the pane. “Soldiers, by God!” he said emphatically. “I had an idea they’d come back.” Edith jumped to her feet, and running over joined Bartholomew at the window. “There’s a lot of them!” she cried excitedly. “Come here, Henry!” Henry readjusted his shade, but kept his seat. “Hadn’t we better turn out the lights?” suggested Bartholomew. “No. They’ll go away in a minute.” “They’re not,” said Edith, peering from the window. “They’re not even thinking of going away. There’s more of them coming. Look--there’s a whole crowd turning the corner of Sixth Avenue.” By the yellow glow and blue shadows of the street lamp she could see that the sidewalk was crowded with men. They were mostly in uniform, some sober, some enthusiastically drunk, and over the whole swept an incoherent clamor and shouting. Henry rose, and going to the window exposed himself as a long silhouette against the office lights. Immediately the shouting became a steady yell, and a rattling fusillade of small missiles, corners of tobacco plugs, cigarette-boxes, and even pennies beat against the window. The sounds of the racket now began floating up the stairs as the folding doors revolved. “They’re coming up!” cried Bartholomew. Edith turned anxiously to Henry. “They’re coming up, Henry.” From down-stairs in the lower hall their cries were now quite audible. “--God damn Socialists!” “Pro-Germans! Boche-lovers!” “Second floor, front! Come on!” “We’ll get the sons--” The next five minutes passed in a dream. Edith was conscious that the clamor burst suddenly upon the three of them like a cloud of rain, that there was a thunder of many feet on the stairs, that Henry had seized her arm and drawn her back toward the rear of the office. Then the door opened and an overflow of men were forced into the room--not the leaders, but simply those who happened to be in front. “Hello, Bo!” “Up late, ain’t you!” “You an’ your girl. Damn _you_!” She noticed that two very drunken soldiers had been forced to the front, where they wobbled fatuously--one of them was short and dark, the other was tall and weak of chin. Henry stepped forward and raised his hand. “Friends!” he said. The clamor faded into a momentary stillness, punctuated with mutterings.