The men looked at Mrs. Fox-Moore with obvious suspicion.
'I cawn't say,' said the one nearest.
'Do you expect any trouble?' she demanded.
There was a silence, and then the other policeman said with a decidedly snubby air—
'It ain't our business to go lookin' fur trouble;' and he turned his eyes away.
'Of course not,' said Vida, pleasantly, coming to her sister's rescue. 'All this lady wants to be assured of is that there are enough of you present to make it safe——'
'If ladies wants to be safe,' said number one, 'they'd better stop in their 'omes.'
'That's the first rude policeman I ever——' began Mrs. Fox-Moore, as they went on.
'Well, you know he's only echoing what we all say.'
Vida was looking over the crowd to where on the plinth of the historic column the little group of women and a solitary man stood out against the background of the banners. Here they were—these new Furies that pursued the agreeable men one sat by at dinner—men who, it was well known, devoted their lives—when they weren't dining—to the welfare of England. But were these frail, rather depressed-looking women—were they indeed the ones, outrageously daring, who broke up meetings and bashed in policemen's helmets? Nothing very daring in their aspect to-day—a little weary and preoccupied they looked, as they stood up there in twos and threes, talking to one another in that exposed position of theirs, while from time to time about their ears like spent bullets flew the spasmodic laughter and rude comment of the crowd—strangely unconscious, those 'blatant sensation-mongers,' of the thousand eyes and the sea of upturned faces!