" "Impossible, Sir," replied Ireton, greatly alarmed. You were afraid of me, afraid that I should have been shocked, afraid of the scandal. 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. At the bottom of the trunk I found two of my mother's dresses. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. So, let's think no more about it. I got to have you under guard in the gatehouse, I can see that. —'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's unconstitutional.
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