The crowd on the street was thinning now. Mr Newman moved into the remnants of the stream, keeping an eye out for Fred, and made his way through the doors of the old stone building which once had been a bank. He .knew the interior, for he had attended a meeting here before the war. He had not stayed very long that time, because the people around him had been so obviously ragged and edged with queerness. But tonight as he sat down he was surprised. In the light of the hall the audience appeared more middle class. There were several people present with their families. Two ministers were sitting together …. another pair on the right. Something was peculiar about the audience, their expressions. In no other mass of people had Mr Newman noticed such nervous concentration upon what was happening up front. Whenever anyone walked onto the low stage all heads craned and there were unintelligible whispers all about him. He studied the stage, trying to pick out Fred.

High over it hung a fifteen-foot photograph of a painting of George Washington. Mr Newman stared into the President’s face and felt a funeral mood spreading over him. The cheeks in the picture were colored so brilliant a pink that the face seemed to be gazing out over the audience like one embalmed. Draped about the portrait were at least fifty American flags of all sizes descending in folds to a row of tall urns filled with cut flowers. He began to smile at the woman seated on a folding chair among the urns. She was stout and heavy-busted and her nose was flattened severely, and across her chest she wore a broad red satin band with gold letters on it reading ‘MOTHER.’ The other half dozen on the stage with her were men who sat a foot apart, saying nothing to each other with the intensity of men sworn to a system of silence. Probably officials of some sort. It mystified him that Fred and Mr Carlson were not among them. He scanned the faces in the rows around him. No one he knew. He felt disappointed and foolish ….

The terrible heat of the people was beginning to fold upon him like wool. The man on his left had deep creases in his red face and a watery beard of sweat was dripping out of the creases and down his chin. On his right a very tall blond man sat quietly staring ahead, from one moment to the next folding and unfolding the jacket on his lap. People were standing up to pull their buttocks free of clothing and then sitting down again. There were sighs all around, as though people were making one effort after another to start anew and breathe normally. A heaving movement was suddenly sweeping the hall …. Father!