as he had never before dreamed of. Spotless it might be, unlike any surface or aspect presented under the high, hard, Puddick north-light, since it showed no recording trace, no homely smear,—since it had had no hour of history. That was the way truth showed and history came out,—in spots: by them, and by nothing else, you knew the real, as you knew the leopard, so that the living creature and the living life equally had to have them. Stuffed animals and weeping women were—well, another question. He had gathered, on the scene of his late effort, that Mora didn't weep, that she was still perfectly pleased with her shocking course; her complacency indeed remained at such a pitch as to make any question of her actual approach, on whatever basis, or any rash direct challenge of her, as yet unadvisable. He was at all events, after another moment, in presence of Jane's damp severity; she never ceased crying, but her tears froze as they fell,—though not, unfortunately, to firm ice, any surface that would bear the weight of large argument. The only thing for him, none the less, was to carry the position with a rush, and he came at once to the worst.
"He'll do it,—he's willing; but he makes a most striking point,—I mean, given the girl as we know her, and as he of course by this time must. He keeps his advantage, he thinks, by not forcing the note,—don't you see?" Traffle himself—under the quick glow of his rush—actually saw, more and more. "He's
