How's that strike you?" "Very well, sir. 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. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. “The adventures I do not doubt, Annabel,” she said. Perhaps she was. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. He knocked on the doorframe. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.
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