She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. 1. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. 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. “I should think YOU could do all sorts of things. His shoulders relaxed and his gaze wavered. Thank him, not me, man. “We’re in for it.
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