They were sounding more and more like Civic every day. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. Presently he resumed: “I believe I must be in love. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I don’t understand this change in you. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. “Why?” he asked, suavely.
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