” Mrs. . One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. 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. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. This smile was more harrowing even than her former rigid look. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. "He is," returned Quilt, significantly.
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