“I am a fool,” he said. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. ‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. ” He called for a hansom. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. She will take me in until I can make some plans. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. 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.
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