“Wouldn’t they do?  Look at that one!  Wouldn’t I like her for a friend?”

In a flash Ethel remembered the little history “prof” at home, who had begged her girls to live and grow.

“Now, Ethel Lanier, you’re going to get right out of this car and fall into line—­friends or no friends!”

In a moment, scowling to keep up her nerve, she was pushing through the standers-by right out into the Avenue; and feeling like a public sight, she tried quickly to get into line.

“You can’t march here!  Our line is full!” a voice said sharply.  Ethel gasped and reddened, turned blindly to the file behind.

“Do you want to march with us?” somebody asked.

“Yes!  Oh, thank you!”

“Fall right in.  That’s right, my dear—­here, take one of my flags.”

“You’re awfully kind!”

“Hooray for the vote!”

Through eyes a little misty Ethel saw striding along at her side a sturdy little old lady in black.  And she blessed her fervently.  It was a thrilling marvellous time.  In less than ten minutes she felt herself boon companions with every one in her line.  But then, before she realized what it was that had happened, her group had reached the end of their march and had melted suddenly into a throng of chattering laughing women.  Ethel stared about her blindly.

“Never mind,” she decided, “I’m going to see more of this!”

And the next day she presented herself at suffrage headquarters.

“I want to work,” she said to a girl at a desk.  The girl looked up at her busily.

“All right, go to that table,” she answered.  And at a long oak table, one of a dozen women and girls, Ethel folded envelopes and addressed them for about three hours.  Down at the end, two girl companions chatted and laughed at their labour.  But the rest were just busy.  “Hand me those envelopes, if you please.”  And so it was all through the room.  She came back the next morning and the next; and as she worked, her expression was grim.  “It isn’t their fault,” she decided.  “They want the vote, they don’t want me.”

And she turned forlornly back to the work of moving up to her new apartment.

The first of May was drawing near, and she saw signs of restlessness, as thousands of New Yorkers prepared to change their quarters.  Moving, always moving.  Did they never stop in one place and make it a home?  The big building in which Ethel lived took on an impersonal air, as though saying, “What do I care?  I’m all concrete, with good hard steel inside of that.”  What a queer place for people’s homes!  People moving in and out!  Curiously she probed into its life.  She had long ago made friends with the wife of the superintendent, and through her Ethel collected bits about these many families so close together and yet so apart; all troubles kept strictly out of sight, with the freight elevator for funerals, cool looks and never a word of greeting.  “Keep off,” writ clear on every face.