207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. He got off on it. “But, of course, she may have come from one of the other flats. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. She slid the dress off, naked underneath. 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. ” “Again,” he said, “I am going to be impertinent. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.
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