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. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. Mrs. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know. ‘You’re speaking the truth. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. E. I mean—I mean to do what I can. “I’d have to sneak out after everyone was asleep. I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence intervenes. ‘If you love me, you will say it, or else I will blow off your head.
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