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. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield. Why was he there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through her mind.
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