Alison had met Eleanor Goodrich in Burton Street, and as the two made their way into the crowded vestibule they encountered Martha Preston, whose husband was Alison’s cousin, in the act of flight.

“You’re not going in!” she exclaimed.

“Of course we are.”

Mrs. Preston stared at Alison in amazement.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, irrelevantly.  “I’m pretty liberal, my dear, as you know,—­but this is more than I can stand.  Look at them!” She drew up her skirts as a woman brushed against her.  “I believe in the poor coming to church, and all that, but this is mere vulgar curiosity, the result of all that odious advertising in the newspapers.  My pew is filled with them.  If I had stayed, I should have fainted.  I don’t know what to think of Mr. Hodder.”

“Mr. Hodder is not to blame for the newspapers,” replied Alison, warmly.  She glanced around her at the people pushing past, her eyes shining, her colour high, and there was the ring of passion in her voice which had do Martha Preston a peculiarly disquieting effect.  “I think it’s splendid that they are here at all!  I don’t care what brought them.”

Mrs. Preston stared again.  She was a pretty, intelligent woman, at whose dinner table one was sure to hear the discussion of some “modern problem”:  she believed herself to be a socialist.  Her eyes sought Eleanor Goodrich’s, who stood by, alight with excitement.

“But surely you, Eleanor-you’re not going in!  You’ll never be able to stand it, even if you find a seat.  The few people we know who’ve come are leaving.  I just saw the Allan Pendletons.”

“Have you seen Phil?” Eleanor asked.

“Oh, yes, he’s in there, and even he’s helpless.  And as I came out poor Mr. Bradley was jammed up against the wall.  He seemed perfectly stunned . . . .”

At this moment they were thrust apart.  Eleanor quivered as she was carried through the swinging doors into the church.

“I think you’re right,” she whispered to Alison, “it is splendid.  There’s something about it that takes hold of me, that carries one away.  It makes me wonder how it can be guided—­what will come of it?”

They caught sight of Phil pushing his way towards them, and his face bore the set look of belligerency which Eleanor knew so well, but he returned her smile.  Alison’s heart warmed towards him.

“What do you think of this?” he demanded.  “Most of our respectable friends who dared to come have left in a towering rage—­to institute lawsuits, probably.  At tiny rate, strangers are not being made to wait until ten minutes after the service begins.  That’s one barbarous custom abolished.”

“Strangers seem to have taken matters in their own hands for once” Eleanor smiled.  “We’ve made up our minds to stay, Phil, even if we have to stand.”

“That’s the right spirit,” declared her husband, glancing at Alison, who had remained silent, with approval and by no means a concealed surprise.  “I think I know of a place where I can squeeze you in, near Professor Bridges and Sally, on the side aisle.”