'Of course not,' said Vida, pleasantly, coming to her sister's rescue. 'All this lady wants to be assured of is that there are enough of you present to make it safe----' 'If ladies wants to be safe,' said number one, 'they'd better stop in their 'omes.' 'That's the first rude policeman I ever----' began Mrs. Fox-Moore, as they went on. 'Well, you know he's only echoing what we all say.' Vida was looking over the crowd to where on the plinth of the historic column the little group of women and a solitary man stood out against the background of the banners. Here they were--these new Furies that pursued the agreeable men one sat by at dinner--men who, it was well known, devoted their lives--when they weren't dining--to the welfare of England. But were these frail, rather depressed-looking women--were they indeed the ones, outrageously daring, who broke up meetings and bashed in policemen's helmets? Nothing very daring in their aspect to-day--a little weary and preoccupied they looked, as they stood up there in twos and threes, talking to one another in that exposed position of theirs, while from time to time about their ears like spent bullets flew the spasmodic laughter and rude comment of the crowd--strangely unconscious, those 'blatant sensation-mongers,' of the thousand eyes and the sea of upturned faces! 'Not _quite_ what I expected!' said Mrs. Fox-Moore, with an unmistakable accent of disappointment. It was plainly her meaning that to a general reprehensibleness, dulness was now superadded. 'Perhaps these are not the ones,' said Vida, catching at hope. Mrs. Fox-Moore took heart. 'Suppose we find out,' she suggested. They had penetrated the fringe of a gathering composed largely of weedy youths and wastrel old men. A few there were who looked like decent artizans, but more who bore the unmistakable aspect of the beery out-of-work. Among the strangely few women, were two or three girls of the domestic servant or Strand Restaurant cashier class--wearers of the cheap lace blouse and the wax bead necklace. Mrs. Fox-Moore, forgetting some of her reluctance now that she was on the spot, valiantly followed Vida as the younger woman threaded her way among the constantly increasing crowd. Just in front of where the two came to a final standstill was a quiet-looking old man with a lot of unsold Sunday papers under one arm and wearing like an apron the bill of the _Sunday Times_. Many of the boys and young men were smoking cigarettes. Some of the older men had pipes. Mrs. Fox-Moore commented on the inferior taste in tobacco as shown by the lower orders. But she, too, kept her eyes glued to the figures up there on the plinth. 'They've had to get men to hold up their banners for them,' laughed Vida, as though she saw a symbolism in the fact, further convicting these women of folly. 'But there's a well-dressed man--that one who isn't holding up anything that I can see--what on earth is _he_ doing there?'