His ironical shout was an accusation, and his eyes were the eyes of a bully. And of a sudden Eve understood what it meant for a woman to have to stand up and face the coarse male element in the crowd, all the young cads who were out for horseplay. She was conscious of physical fear; a shrinking from the bestial thoughtlessness of a mob that did things that any single man would have been ashamed to do.
The fellow was still staring at her.
“Now, then, ‘Votes for Women!’ Own up!”
He jogged her with his elbow, and she kept a scornful profile towards him, though trembling inwardly.
Someone interposed.
“You there, leave the young lady alone! She’s only listening like you and me.”
The aggressor turned with a snarl, but found himself up against a particularly big workman dressed in his Sunday clothes.
“You’re an old woman yourself.”
“Go home and sell stockings over the counter, and leave decent people alone.”
Eve thanked the man with a look, and turned out of the crowd. The workman followed her.