Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. Until she had left her island, what she heard and what she saw were truths. 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. That is the dreadful truth. The tropical dawn is swift. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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