“Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. 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. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. ” “Did I?” she said. Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg.
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