The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “It is just a look. Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by. 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. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy.
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