” That conversation ended and he turned to her again. He hesitated. Now lend me your own hand. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side. ” He said to her, quite unsure of whether or not he was dreaming. 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. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. " Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. .
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