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\"Want your pencil back?\" She asked him warily, squinting. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. ” Sir John, frankly oblivious of the possibility of passers-by, took her into his arms and kissed her. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. He cherished her. And experience was slow in coming. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. 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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