she marched on, down the great, glittering avenue,
proudly clutching her unwieldy banner, a stunted, grotesque, magnificent
figure. More than a figure. A symbol.

Fanny's eyes followed her until she passed out of sight. She put up her
hand to her cheek, and her face was wet. She stood there, and the parade
went on, endlessly, it seemed, and she saw it through a haze. Bands.
More bands. Pennants. Floats. Women. Women. Women.

"I always cry at parades," said Fanny, to the woman who stood next
her--the woman who wanted to march, but was scared to. "That's all
right," said the woman. "That's all right." And she laughed, because she
was crying, too. And then she did a surprising thing. She elbowed her
way to the edge of the crowd, past the red-faced man with the cigar,
out to the street, and fell into line, and marched on up the street,
shoulders squared, head high.

Fanny glanced down at her watch. It was quarter after four. With a
little gasp she turned to work her way through the close-packed crowd.
It was an actual physical struggle, from which she emerged disheveled,
breathless, uncomfortably warm, and minus her handkerchief, but she had
gained the comparative quiet of the side street, and she made the short
distance that lay between the Avenue and her hotel a matter of little
more than a minute. In the hotel corridor stood Ella and Fenger, the
former looking worried, the latter savage.

"Where in the world--" began Ella.

"Caught in the jam. And I didn't want to get out. It was--it
was--glorious!" She was shaking hands with Fenger, and realizing for the
first time that she must be looking decidedly sketchy and that she had
lost her handkerchief. She fished for it in her bag, hopelessly, when
Fenger released her hand. He had not spoken. Now he said:

"What's the matter with your eyes?"

"I've been crying," Fanny confessed cheerfully.

"Crying!"

"The parade. There was a little girl in it--" she stopped. Fenger would
not be interested in that little girl. Now Clancy would have--but Ella
broke in on that thought.

"I guess you don't realize that out in front of this hotel there's a
kind of a glorified taxi waiting, with the top rolled back, and it's
been there half an hour. I never expect to see the time when I could
enjoy keeping a taxi waiting. It goes against me."

"I'm sorry. Really. Let's go. I'm ready."

"You are not. Your hair's a sight; and those eyes!"

Fenger put a hand on her arm. "Go on up and