He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. . It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. ‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort. I am a thing to be used. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both.
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