Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. There was a long silence between them. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. . . ” He made a step toward her. Capes scored back with an uncompromising vigor that was his way of complimenting her intelligence. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. 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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