Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. 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. ‘You talk together of me as if I am not there. I am already too much flattered that you should have given me your confidence. “You will not even answer my letters. That’s the wonder of it.
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