As for the atmosphere of the place itself—it can be summed up by only one word, and that word is—youth. Not that everybody who came to Headquarters was—as years go—young. There were, for instance, Lavinia Dock who was sixty, Mary Nolan who was seventy, and the Rev. Olympia Brown who was an octogenarian. Of course, though, when one considers that the Rev. Olympia Brown took part in that rain-drenched and wind-driven picket deputation of a thousand women on March 4, and that Mary Nolan and Lavinia Dock both served their terms in prison, one must admit that they were as young in spirit as the youngest picket there. But young pickets were there—I mean, young in actual years; young and fresh and gay; able and daring. Alice Paul, herself, whimsically relates what an obstacle their very youth seemed to them during the early part of the movement. When first they began to wage their warfare on the Democratic Party, old Suffragists rebuked them; and rebuked them always on the score that they were too young to know any better. “How hard we tried to seem old,” Alice Paul said. “On all occasions we pushed elderly ones into the foreground and when Mrs. Lawrence Lewis became a grandmother, how triumphant we were. Oh, we encouraged grandmotherhood in those days.” But now—triumphantly successful—they were no longer afraid of their own youth. They knew it was their greatest asset. They made the place ring with its gaiety. They made it seethe with its activity. They made it rock with its resolution. “The young are at the gates!” said Lavinia Dock. And these were young who would not brook denial of their demands. As you entered Headquarters, that breath of youth struck you in the face with its wild, fresh sweetness. It was as pungent as a wind blowing over spring flowers. It was as vivid as the flash of spring clouds hurrying over the new blue of the sky. In actuality, youthful activity rang from every corner of the house. In the white entrance hall, a young girl sat at the switchboard; and she was always a very busy person. To the left was the Press Headquarters, full of that mad turmoil which, seemingly, is inevitable to any Press activity. Upstairs, Alice Paul was always interviewing or being interviewed; reading letters or answering them; asking questions or giving information; snatching a hurried meal from a tray; dictating all manner of business; or giving the last orders before she darted east, west, north, or south. She was sure to be doing one of these things, or some of them, or—this really seems not an exaggeration—all of them.