While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead. 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 Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Come and help me pack. "See how glad he is!" His irony and displeasure subsided. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands.
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