In the time consumed between the opening of the car's door and her taking her seat eleven more New-Yorkers gathered about the Menaud.
"Home!" she snapped, angrily.
The photographer's flunky stepped away to tell the chauffeur. Instantly a young man's head was thrust through the window of the car. Behind him crowded a dozen disgusting beasts—female.
"You're a pippin!" came from the young man's face a foot from her own. She shrank back. "Say, he's right! I wisht I was in his—" Then the motor started and nearly, but, alas! not quite, decapitated the loathsome compatriot.
If this was fame, she didn't wish any of it, she decided.
"I hate him!" she said to the cut-glass flower-holder. "He has given me this absurd notoriety and— What delays us?"
She looked out of the window.
They were halted at Thirty-fourth Street. Presently the traffic policeman's whistle blew. The motor started again.
She looked at the policeman. He instantly touched his helmet to her. And she saw also that he nodded eagerly to his mounted colleague across the street.
The man on horseback also saluted her militarily!