from its usual orderly functioning. Now she thought of
Theodore, her little brother--his promised return. It had
been a slow and painful thing, his climb. Perhaps if she
had been more ready to help, if she had not always waited
until he asked the aid that she might have volunteered--she
thrust that thought out of her mind, rudely, and slammed the
door on it. . . . Fenger. He had said, "Damn!" when she
had told him about Ella. And his voice had been--well--she
pushed that thought outside her mind, too. . . . Clarence
Heyl. . . . "He makes you think about things you're afraid
to face by yourself. Big things. Things inside of
you. . . ."

Fanny turned away from the window. She decided she must be
tired, after all. Because here she was, with everything to
make her happy: Theodore coming home; her foreign trip a
success; Ella and Fenger to praise her and make much of
her; a drive and tea this afternoon (she wasn't above these
creature comforts)--and still she felt unexhilarated, dull.
She decided to go down for a bit of lunch, and perhaps a
stroll of ten or fifteen minutes, just to see what Fifth
avenue was showing. It was half-past one when she reached
that ordinarily well-regulated thoroughfare. She found its
sidewalks packed solid, up and down, as far as the eye could
see, with a quiet, orderly, expectant mass of people.
Squads of mounted police clattered up and down, keeping the
middle of the street cleared. Whatever it was that had
called forth that incredible mass, was scheduled to proceed
uptown from far downtown, and that very soon. Heads were
turned that way. Fanny, wedged in the crowd, stood a-