"I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. 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. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers. “Four,” Anna decided firmly. Presently repellance grew under the frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it.
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