To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. 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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