“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. 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. Its very calmness was frightful. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. F.
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