He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. "I would treat him as you treated his father, Sir Rowland. My father died a year ago, by the way. Jonathan shook his head. . “But about last night. "My sight is failing me. 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.
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