She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. “Go to London,” 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. . He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. “Dare!” she said. “Please search everywhere,” she said. There's a man dying—Captain Darrell.
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