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 taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea. He waved a hand toward the sea. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. You can’t do without an agent, and there’s no one can run you better than I can.
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