“We’ll go to a lovely little bungalow on the Soar, shall we? I stay the week-ends there sometimes.”
Ursula was beside herself. She could not endure till the Saturday came, her thoughts burned up like a fire. If only it were Saturday, if only it were Saturday.
Then Saturday came, and she set out. Miss Inger met her in Sawley, and they walked about three miles to the bungalow. It was a moist, warm cloudy day.
The bungalow was a tiny, two-roomed shanty set on a steep bank. Everything in it was exquisite. In delicious privacy, the two girls made tea, and then they talked. Ursula need not be home till about ten o’clock.
The talk was led, by a kind of spell, to love. Miss Inger was telling Ursula of a friend, how she had died in childbirth, and what she had suffered; then she told of a prostitute, and of some of her experiences with men.
As they talked thus, on the little verandah of the bungalow, the night fell, there was a little warm rain.
“It is really stifling,” said Miss Inger.
They watched a train, whose lights were pale in the lingering twilight, rushing across the distance.
“It will thunder,” said Ursula.
The electric suspense continued, the darkness sank, they were eclipsed.