"What did she do?"
"She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to
see her."
"Does he love her?"
"It's a year and a half he's been with her now."
"What was she like?"
"Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice
eyebrows."
Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the
outer world.
"Do all men have lovers?" she asked, amazed at her own
temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and his face
still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm.
"They're always mentioning some amazing fine woman or other,
and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them dash up to
London the moment they are free."
"What for?"
"To some amazing fine woman or other."
"What sort of woman?"
"Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule. One
of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suit-case always
ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it to the
station, and changes in the train. No matter who is in the
carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least the top
half of his toilet."
Ursula quivered and wondered.
"Why is he in such a hurry?" she asked.
Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.
"He's got a woman in his mind, I suppose."
She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions and
lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a splendid
recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning. It seemed
very splendid.
That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and
Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away from
him. And she was waiting, waiting for something more.
In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about
them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal
world. Now a new state should come to pass.
He walked near to her, and with the same, silent, intent
approach put his arm round her waist, and softly, very softly,
drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon her;
she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce
touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface of his
body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious swoon of
motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent nearer to her, her
head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his warm breath on her
face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly that she seemed to faint
away, his lips touched her cheek, and she drifted through
strands of heat and darkness.
Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited, like
the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face
was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their
footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees,
whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly that
does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a little
nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her, and drew
her close.