Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. 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. “Would YOU like us—if some one told you the bare outline of our story?— and what we are doing?” “I shouldn’t mind,” said Ann Veronica. I should like to have had you forgive me. " "Still, you forgot something. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. "You'll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir," observed the woman, as they walked along; "but she has been very outrageous latterly.
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