" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. His grief was so audible, that it attracted the notice of some of the bystanders, and Thames was obliged to beg him to control it. 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. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. ’ As a matter of fact, I am not. "Do you hear me?" cried the lady, with increasing vehemence.
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