She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. 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. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. Sheila found out. \" She looked at Mike. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock.
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