275 “Yes!” She answered, feeling joy and fear well in her chest. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. 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. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. The opiate has done its duty. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead.
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