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" "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off. And, as usual,” she continued, a little bitterly, “I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. 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. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. He moved slightly, and she went on, with a slight catching of her breath: “It’s a bother and disturbance, but you see—” She had to go through with it now, because she could think of nothing but her preconceived words. One day she desisted from her search and went unexpectedly to the Tredgold College. .
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