In about a minute two waitresses in aprons and streamered caps of immaculate purity emerged from the secret places of the Parade Restaurant and Bar, slipped round the end of the counter, and started with easy indifference to saunter away into the grounds after the manner of restaurant girls who have been gifted with half an hour off.  The tabled expanse in front of the Parade erection was busy with people, some sitting at the tables and supporting the establishment, but many more merely taking advantage of the pitch to observe all possible exciting developments of the suffragette shindy.

And as the criminals were modestly getting clear, a loud and imperious voice called: 

“Hey!”

Audrey, lacking experience, hesitated.

“Hey there!”

They both turned, for the voice would not be denied.  It belonged to a man sitting with another man at a table on the outskirts of the group of tables.  It was the voice of the rosetted steward, who beckoned in a not unfriendly style.

“Bring us two liqueur brandies, miss,” he cried.  “And look slippy, if ye please.”

The sharp tone, so sure of obedience, gave Audrey a queer sensation of being in reality a waitress doomed to tolerate the rough bullying of gentlemen urgently desiring alcohol.  And the fierce thought that women—­especially restaurant waitresses—­must and should possess the Vote surged through her mind more powerfully than ever.

“I’ll never have the chance again,” she muttered to herself.  And marched to the counter.

“Two liqueur brandies, please,” she said to the woman in grey, who had left her apron calculations.  “That’s all right,” she murmured, as the woman stared a question at her.  Then the woman smiled to herself, and poured out the liqueur brandies from a labelled bottle with startling adroitness, and dashed the full glasses on to a brass tray.

As Audrey walked across the gravel carefully balancing the tray, she speculated whether the public eye would notice the shape of her small handbag, which was attached by a safety pin to her dress beneath the apron, and whether her streamers were streaming out far behind her head.

Before she could put the tray down on the table, the rosetted steward, who looked pale, snatched one of the glasses and gulped down its entire contents.

“I wanted it!” said he, smacking his lips.  “I wanted it bad.  They’ll catch ’em all right.  I should know the young ’un again anywhere.  I’ll swear to identify her in any court.  And I will.  Tasty little piece o’ goods, too!...  But not so good-looking as you,” he added, gazing suddenly at Audrey.

“None o’ your sauce,” snapped Audrey, and walked off, leaving the tray behind.

The two men exploded into coarse but amiable laughter, and called to her to return, but she would not.  “You can pay the other young lady,” she said over her shoulder, pointing vaguely to the counter where there was now a bevy of other young ladies.