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” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered. At the opening of the van doors and the emergence into the fresh air Ann Veronica’s doubt and depression gave place to the wildest exhilaration. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. 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. Don’t you care for Nigel at all?” Anna was silent for a moment or two. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor.
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