They came with flags - usually the Australian one, occasionally the Union Jack. They walked and they came in wheelchairs and on crutches. Kids came in gaggles - singing Advance Australia Fair. Others brought an alpaca. Some, including the alpaca, wore paper crowns.
Some brought Tim-Tams and gave them to the King and Queen. The donors said they liked to think that the chocolate biscuits would be welcome relief when the couple got back in the car to parliament (though the biscuits might have melted in the hot spring sun).
And then the King and Queen emerged from the Australian War Memorial, he in a slate-blue suit and she resplendent in a white dress.
They worked the crowd in that professional way that is a unique skill of their trade: that ability to be friendly but distant, to seem to engage with people but say nothing which might be meat for the nearby sharks in the British press pack.
Queen Camilla was given a (toy) kangaroo. "She's just so beautiful," pronounced the donor (speaking of the Queen).
Some had brought protest banners, vowing to accuse the King of Australia of genocide and colonisation - but these protesters didn't get beyond the police at the boundary fence.
There the Aboriginal protesters stood, on the outside, accusing the police of perverting the course of justice by not letting them protest near the royal route. They said they had intended to serve The King with an accusation of genocide and colonisation.
Above all, those on the inside of the cordon brought curiosity.
There were some out-and-out royalists in the crowd but most seemed to be there because, well, it was The King and Queen. It was an event.
During the wait before the pair arrived, there was some overheard good-natured chatter, sometimes about Camilla and her role in the ending of The King's previous marriage.
When the couple emerged into the sun, a phalanx of security people moved down the fenced-off crowd, no doubt eyeing out any potential trouble. The cameras were kept ahead of the pair, clamouring for the money shot for tonight's news (alpacas come in handy for this).
There was clamouring among the common people, too. Lynpon Martin, resplendent in a Union Jack suit, had his hand shaken by The King, and he is unlikely ever to wash it again, so honoured did he feel.
He was so overcome that he couldn't remember what The King actually said to him. He did report, though, that the royal handshake was "firm".
For Mr Martin from Melbourne, the meeting, fleeting though it was, had an emotional significance. His late grandmother was a big fan of the royal family. "It's about my grandmother who is no longer with me," he said. "If she was here, she would be rapt."
Overall, the event was civilised and genial. The War Memorial reckoned there were 4100 on-lookers - enough to make a decent enthusiastic crowd but not too many to seem ecstatic.
There was no great royal fervour on show and no great hostiliy, either.
