" "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency, regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. We are nuns. She rang again with the same result. In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this.
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