Insensibly she drifted
towards these policemen.
"Ladies' Gallery, miss?" said a voice; "your order, please, though I
think it's full."
Here was a fresh complication. Beatrice had no order. She had no idea
that one was necessary.
"I haven't got an order," she said faintly. "I did not know that I must
have one. Can I not get in without?"
"Most certainly _not_, miss," answered the voice, while its owner,
suspecting dynamite, surveyed her with a cold official eye. "Now make
way, make way, please."
Beatrice's grey eyes filled with tears, as she turned to go in
bitterness of heart. So all her labour was in vain, and that which would
be done must be done without the mute farewell she sought. Well, when
sorrow was so much, what mattered a little more? She turned to go, but
not unobserved. A certain rather youthful Member of Parliament, with an
eye for beauty in distress, had been standing close to her, talking to
a constituent. The constituent had departed to wherever constituents
go--and many representatives, if asked, would cheerfully point out a
locality suitable to the genus, at least in their judgment--and the
member had overheard the conversation and seen Beatrice's eyes fill with
tears.
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