The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. 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. “Glaciers?” she said. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. Mr. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger.
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