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 had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. But a far greater affliction was in store for her. ‘Will you stop hedging? I’m hanged if I go on with this ridiculous cat and mouse game. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. I worshipped women long before I found any woman I might ever hope to worship. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. I arranged that he should.
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