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 one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. This time there wasn't any doubt. . "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks.
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