They had noticed before a faded-looking personage who had been going about on the fringe of the crowd with a file of propagandist literature on her arm. Vida beckoned to her. She made her way with some difficulty through the chaffing, jostling horde, saying steadily and with a kind of cheerful doggedness—
'Leaflets! Citizenship of Women, by Lothian Scott! Labour Record! Prison Experiences of Miss——'
'How much?' asked Miss Levering.
'What you like,' she answered.
Miss Levering took her change out in information. 'Can you tell me who the speakers are?'
'Oh, yes.' The haggard face brightened before the task. 'That one is the famous Miss Claxton.'
'With her face screwed up?'
'That's because the sun is in her eyes.'
'She isn't so bad-looking,' admitted Mrs. Fox-Moore.
'No; but just wait till she speaks!' The faded countenance of the woman with the heavy pile of printed propaganda on her arm was so lit with enthusiasm, that it, too, was almost good-looking, in the same way as the younger, more regular face up there, frowning at the people, or the sun, or the memory of wrongs.