“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.