” She said, rubbing Lucy’s back. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. 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. "Stop a minute, my dear," cried Austin.
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