Perhaps there were.  Nobody knew.  But all the city did know that down the broad boulevard, in the mild, damp air of the May night, regiment upon regiment of women marched to bear witness to their conviction and their hope.  Bands played, choruses sang, transparencies proclaimed watchwords, and every woman in the seemingly endless procession swung a yellow lantern.  The onlookers crowded the sidewalks and hung from the towering office buildings, to watch that string of glowing amber beads reaching away to north and to south.  College girls, working-girls, home-women, fine ladies, efficient business women, vague, non-producing, half-awakened women,—­all sorts, all conditions, black, white, Latin, Slav, Germanic, English, American, American, American,—­they came marching on.  They were proud and they were diffident; they were sad and they were merry; they were faltering and they were enthusiastic.  Some were there freely, splendidly, exultantly; more were there because some force greater than themselves impelled them.  Through bewilderment and hesitancy and doubt, they saw the lights of the future shining, and they fixed their eyes upon the amber lanterns as upon the visible symbols of their faith; they marched and marched.  They were the members of a new revolution, and, as always, only a portion of the revolutionists knew completely what they desired.

At the Caravansary there had been sharp disapproval of the whole thing.  The men had brought forth arguments to show Kate her folly.  Mrs. Dennison, Mrs. Goodrich, and Mrs. Applegate had spoken gentle words of warning; Honora had vaguely suggested that the matter was immaterial; Mary Morrison had smiled as one who avoided ugliness; and Kate had laughingly defied them.

“I march!” she had declared.  “And I’m not ashamed of my company.”

It was, indeed, a company of which she was proud.  It included the names of the most distinguished, the most useful, the most talented, the most exclusive, and the most triumphantly inclusive women in the city.

“Poor McCrea,” put in Fulham.  “Aren’t you making him ridiculous?  He’ll come dashing up here the moment he gets off the train.  As a matter of fact, he’ll be half expecting you to meet him.  You’re making a mistake, Miss Barrington, if you’ll let a well-meaning fellow-being say so.  You’re leaving the substance for the shadow.”

“I’ve misled you about Ray, I’m afraid,” Kate said with unexpected patience.  “He hasn’t really any right to expect me to be waiting, and I don’t believe he will.  Come to think of it, I don’t know that I want to be found waiting.”

“Oh, well, of course—­” said Fulham with a shrug, leaving his sentence unfinished.

“Anyway,” said Kate flushing, “I march!”

* * * * *

They told her afterward how McCrea had come toof-toofing up to the door in a taxi, and how he had taken the steps two at a time.