In the below, Grant is from Scotland Yard, Chris Clay is a murdered actress, and the man beside him is the husband (5th child of a duke or somesuch). There has been no description of the events at the funeral before now:
As they turned the corner Grant caught sight of the news-sellers' posters. CLAY FUNERAL: UNPRECEDENTED SCENES. TEN WOMEN FAINT. LONDON'S FAREWELL TO CLAY. And (the Sentinel) CLAY'S LAST AUDIENCE.
Grant's foot came down on the accelerator.
"It was unbelievably ghastly," said the man beside him, quietly.
"Yes, I can imagine."
"Those women. I think the end of our greatness as a race must be very near. We came through the war well, but perhaps the effort was too great. It left us--epileptic. Great shocks do, sometimes." He was silent a moment, evidently seeing it all again in his mind's eye. "I've seen machine guns turned on troops in the open--in China--and rebelled against the slaughter. But I would have seen that sub-human mass of hysteria riddled this morning with more joy than I can describe to you. Not because it was--Chris, but because they made me ashamed of being human, of belonging to the same species."
"I had hoped that at that early hour there would be very little demonstration. I know the police were counting on that."
"We counted on it too. That is why we chose that hour. Now that I've seen with my own eyes, I know that nothing could have prevented it. The people are insane."
He paused, and gave an unamused laugh. "She never did like people much. It was because she found people--disappointing that she left her money as she did. Her fans this morning have vindicated her judgment."