It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. . 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. Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Near by stood Ah Cum and the young unknown, the former protesting gently, the latter insistent upon his demands. “You could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” He asked with a sardonic grin on his face.
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