“Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. 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. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. ‘You wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. She thought of Capes. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ” He said, uncrossing his arms. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering.
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