"We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. She had nothing to say for herself. "I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. The struggle was brief, and Gerald stepped aside, the pistol in his possession, while the girl Melusine stood trembling and glaring. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. 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. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him.
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