She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. 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. " "She cannot stay here," the manager declared. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. . .
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