We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. “You know about my scandalous past?” “Very little. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. Got the tickets? Yes, but then—you said you borrowed?” “I did, too,” said Ann Veronica. 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.
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