"Do you think he would have done better if he had tried to make a shell for himself like an oyster's or a crab's?" "He wouldn't have done better in the matter of shells. But personally he would have gone up the scale of intelligence." "He would have been very uncomfortable." "Oh, it wasn't claimed that conformity was not comfortable. It was only said to be death." "Didn't the nautilus have a very beautiful shell?" Mrs. Mavering spoke in a low voice. "If you ask me, I don't think human life is better than music. I think music is the better of the two." Gard seemed mutely to understand her, and was silent a moment as if to let the shadow pass, then said: "Music is a little like the nautilus-shell, isn't it?--the venturous bark that flings its purple wings in gulfs enchanted, and all that. But isn't 'all that' rather a foolish thing to do forever? Purple wings in enchanted gulfs--it's a narrow experience when you come to think of it." Gard rose to go, but stood a moment looking at the two, as if he wanted to fix the picture of them and carry it away; of the woman with heavy hair, in a black-and-red dress, who gave the impression of wearing jewelry and really wore none, and the girl in white with a blue band at her throat, slim hands that somehow looked so strong, and gray eyes that demanded candor and offered imaginations. The firelight played over them as if it were trying to illustrate the subject, saying, "This is worth while to understand." "Do you know there's a war coming?" said Gard. "Trumpets and drums are in the air." After that he went away, and through the blowing storm along Philip's road to his rooms, which looked out on the law school square. The front room was full of the traces and tokens of the six years past, indicating what the mental life then had been, but not very clearly what result had come out of it all. There were books in number and confusion, as if he did not care for them in a bookish way, but only as mines, clefts, or fissures where metals are sometimes to be found--and if found and dug out, the source has no more personal value. There were some lounging-chairs, a desk with a litter of sheet-music and scored manuscript.