Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. ‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said Melusine fearfully.
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