” “Auntie?” asked Constance, who was conversant with Ann Veronica’s affairs. This is a mere boy. The letter will explain all. ” She fumbled with her keys and opened the front door. 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 to be a boy?” “I wonder! It’s out of the question, any way. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings.
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