Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. She donned her gloves. 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. The father was a madman. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’ ‘That is easy. Think how free that leaves me to follow things up! I must take you everywhere. "You must not remain here," he said.
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