She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. “My dear sweet Lucia. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. Go easy. 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. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. Make up your mind as to the terms, and I'll engage to find the man.
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