The wearer of the 'Tam' was certainly more robust-looking than the others, but even she had the pallor of the worker in the town. She carried her fine head and shoulders badly, like one who has stooped over tasks at an age when she should have been running about the fields. She drew her thick brows together every now and then with an effect of determination that gave her well-chiselled features so dark and forbidding an aspect it was a surprise to see the grace that swept into her face when, at something one of her comrades said, she broke into a smile. Two shabby men on Vida's left were working themselves into a fine state of moral indignation over the laxity of the police in allowing these women to air their vanity in public.
'Comin' here with tam-o'-shanters to tell us 'ow to do our business.'
'It's part o' wot I mean w'en I s'y old England's on the down gryde.'
'W'ich is the one in black—this end?' his companion asked, indicating a refined-looking woman of forty or so. 'Is that Miss——?'
'Miss,' chipped in a young man of respectable appearance just behind. 'Miss? Why, that's the mother o' the Gracchi,' and there was a little ripple of laughter.
'Hasn't she got any of her jewels along with her to-day?' said another voice.
'What do they mean?' demanded Mrs. Fox-Moore.
Vida shook her head. She herself was looking about for some one to ask.
'Isn't it queer that you and I have lived all this time in the world and have never yet been in a mixed crowd before in all our lives?—never as a part of it.'
'I think myself it's less strange we haven't done it before than that we're doing it now. There's the woman selling things. Let us ask her——'