. . Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. Did you break my mother's heart as you tried to break mine? I am no longer accountable to you for anything. 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. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. I think over all sorts of things. I'll leave these out, and to-morrow you can read them through.
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