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In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. She could not see clearly. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. Already Cosette was her chosen friend.
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