"You are very complimentary," was the wife's reply.

The doctor was silent for a moment: then he took up his hat. "I'm
going to try to get passes out of the city," he said.

He had a long walk by Twelfth street to the rooms of the committee
on transportation. Arrived at the hall, he found two long lines of
waiting humanity reaching out like great wings from the door, the men
on one side, the women on the other. He fell into line at the very
foot, and there he waited hour after hour. For once, the women held
the vantage-ground. They passed up in advance of the men to the
audience-room, being admitted one by one. The audience consumed, on
the average, five minutes to a person. At length all the women had had
their turn: then, one by one, the men were admitted. Slowly Dr. Lively
moved forward. He had attained the steps and was feeling hopeful of a
speedy admission, when the business-session was pronounced ended for
the day, and the doors were closed. He went back drooping, and related
his experience to his wife.

"You don't mean to say you've been gone all this afternoon and come
back without the passes?" she exclaimed.

"That's just how it is," answered the doctor.

"Well, I'll warrant I would have got in if I'd been there," she said.

"Yes, you'd have got an audience, for, as I have said, the women were
admitted before the men. My next neighbor in the line said he had been
there three days in succession without getting into the hall."