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. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings. . ’ ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged.
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