“Why not?” He asked. “For Heaven’s sake, Dunster, don’t let her out of the carriage, or hansom, or whatever she came in. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. 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. . She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. You ought to have had better advice two years ago.
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