‘No!’ Melusine snapped as he tugged at the thing. 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. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously.
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