“You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things. ’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. 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 put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. There’s stories, too, about his demonstrator, Capes Something or other. I am a murderer. ‘We?’ Gerald smiled. His face fell. “Shit happens, John. ‘Bring her to me and we shall see. I would have twice the problems that I have currently.
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