"
Even Ella looked a little startled at that.
They had tea at Claremont, at a table overlooking the river
and the Palisades. Fenger was the kind of man to whom
waiters always give a table overlooking anything that should
be overlooked. After tea they drove out along the river and
came back in the cool of the evening. Fanny was very quiet
now. Fenger followed her mood. Ella sustained the
conversation, somewhat doggedly. It was almost seven when
they reached the plaza exit. And there Fanny, sitting
forward suddenly, gave a little cry.
"Why--they're marching yet!" she said, and her voice was
high with wonder. "They're marching yet! All the time
we've been driving and teaing, they've been marching."
And so they had. Thousands upon thousands, they had flowed
along as relentlessly, and seemingly as endlessly as a
river. They were marching yet. For six hours the thousands
had poured up that street, making it a moving mass of white.
And the end was not yet. What pen, and tongue, and sense of
justice had failed to do, they were doing now by sheer,
crude force of numbers.
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