” He looked at her pleadingly. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. 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 tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend.
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