As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. He was human.
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