Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. B.
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