“I’m not sure, sir,” said the man.  “I think it’s a Socialist meeting.” (He was, of course, not missing the little comedy.  I wondered what he thought!)

“A Socialist meeting?” said van Tuiver; then, to his wife:  “You don’t want to stay for that!”

Again Sylvia astonished me.  “I’d like to very much,” she answered simply.

He made no reply.  I saw him stare at her, and then I saw his glance take me in.  I sat in a corner as inconspicuous as I could make myself.  I wondered whether I was a sempstress or a tutor, and whether either of these functionaries were introduced, and whether they shook hands or not.

Mrs. Frothingham had taken her stand at the base of Washington’s statue.  Had she by any chance identified the tall and immaculate gentleman who stood beside the automobile?  Before she had said three sentences I made sure that she had done so, and I was appalled at her audacity.

“Fellow citizens,” she began—­“fellow-buccaneers of Wall Street.”  And when the mild laughter had subsided:  “What I have to say is going to be addressed to one individual among you—­the American millionaire.  I assume there is one present—­if no actual millionaire, then surely several who are destined to be, and not less than a thousand who aspire to be.  So hear me, Mr. Millionaire,” this with a smile, which gave you a sense of a reserve fund of energy and good humour.  She had the crowd with her from the start—­all but one.  I stole a glance at the millionaire, and saw that he was not smiling.

“Won’t you get in?” asked his wife, and he answered coldly:  “No, I’ll wait till you’ve had enough.”

“Last summer I had a curious experience,” said the speaker.  “I was a guest at a tennis match, played upon the grounds of a State insane-asylum, the players being the doctors of the institution.  Here, on a beautiful sunshiny afternoon, were ladies and gentlemen clad in festive white, enjoying a holiday, while in the background stood a frowning building with iron-barred gates and windows, from which one heard now and then the howlings of the maniacs.  Some of the less fortunate of these victims of fate had been let loose, and while we played tennis, they chased the balls.  All afternoon, while I sipped tea and chatted and watched the games, I said to myself:  ’Here is the most perfect simile of our civilization that has ever come to me.  Some people wear white and play tennis all day, while other people chase the balls, or howl in dungeons in the background!’ And that is the problem I wish to put before my American millionaire—­the problem of what I will call our lunatic-asylum stage of civilization.  Mind you, this condition is all very well so long as we can say that the lunatics are incurable—­that there is nothing we can do but shut our ears to their howling, and go ahead with our tennis.  But suppose the idea were to dawn upon us that it is only because we played tennis all day that the lunatic-asylum is crowded, then might not the howls grow unendurable to us, and the game lose its charm?”