The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly. Austin could scarcely credit his senses when he beheld him. 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. ‘Oh, my God, Melusine, what have I done?’ Melusine shook her head.
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