Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the train unnoticed. 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!” He held her arm and abandoned it again at her quick defensive movement.
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