"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. 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. It would be difficult to find another human being subjected to so many angles of attack as Spurlock. Winifred screamed. Old Lancashire families both. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. The envelope might contain only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts. ’ ‘Perfectly correct, my boy.
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