Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. 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. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. “He is evidently a friend of Mrs. ” “Possibly—bit by bit.
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