be overlooked. After tea they drove out along the river and
came back in the cool of the evening. Fanny was very quiet
now. Fenger followed her mood. Ella sustained the
conversation, somewhat doggedly. It was almost seven when
they reached the plaza exit. And there Fanny, sitting
forward suddenly, gave a little cry.

"Why--they're marching yet!" she said, and her voice was
high with wonder. "They're marching yet! All the time
we've been driving and teaing, they've been marching."

And so they had. Thousands upon thousands, they had flowed
along as relentlessly, and seemingly as endlessly as a
river. They were marching yet. For six hours the thousands
had poured up that street, making it a moving mass of white.
And the end was not yet. What pen, and tongue, and sense of
justice had failed to do, they were doing now by sheer,
crude force of numbers. The red-faced hooligan, who had
stood next to Fanny in the crowd hours before, had long ago
ceased his jibes and slunk away, bored, if not impressed.
After all, one might jeer at ten, or fifty, or a hundred
women, or even five hundred. But not at forty
thousand.

Their car turned down Madison Avenue, and Fenger twisted
about for a last look at the throng in the plaza. He was
plainly impressed. The magnitude of the thing appealed to
him. To a Haynes-Cooper-trained mind, forty thousand women,
marching for whatever the cause, must be impressive. Forty
thousand of anything had the respect of Michael Fenger. His