“Why not?” Still there was no emotion in the cold, grey eyes.
“Because—I think there’s something going on.”
“What of that?”
“I’m not in a hurry, and I’d like to see.”
He stood for a moment looking at the crowd. Mrs. Frothingham had come forward, evidently intending to speak. “What is this, Ferris?” he demanded of the chauffeur.
“I’m not sure, sir,” said the man. “I think it’s a Socialist meeting.” (He was, of course, not missing the little comedy. I wondered what he thought!)
“A Socialist meeting?” said van Tuiver; then, to his wife: “You don’t want to stay for that!”
Again Sylvia astonished me. “I’d like to very much,” she answered simply.
He made no reply. I saw him stare at her, and then I saw his glance take me in. I sat in a corner as inconspicuous as I could make myself. I wondered whether I was a sempstress or a tutor, and whether either of these functionaries were introduced, and whether they shook hands or not.
Mrs. Frothingham had taken her stand at the base of Washington’s statue. Had she by any chance identified the tall and immaculate gentleman who stood beside the automobile? Before she had said three sentences I made sure that she had done so, and I was appalled at her audacity.