"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. I have recently made your sister’s acquaintance, and in the course of conversation I understood from her that her Christian name was Anna. 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. Their colloquy was ended abruptly by the apparition of Miss Klegg at the further door. “Let’s go home.
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