Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. 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. “Have you ever kissed a guy before?” She rolled the tissue into a ball in her lap and stared at it. Spurlock stepped into the room. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. His first wife. His fingers closed upon her hand. ‘But I have told you.
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