"Paganism, too," said Paul.
"Paganism?"
"Yes. It's in the sketch as you've painted it. A fierce vehemently-lived to-day, and no to-morrow or yesterday."
"Write that."
"I shall. Do you realise I've written like blazes since we've been on this stunt?"
She stared over the side, hunching herself up a little.
"I have," Paul went on. "You've made me. You're a perpetual inspiration, Ursula."
Her body relaxed, and she laughed a little, happily. "The next book, please," she said. "'To Ursula: An Inspiration.'"
He moved forward a pace or two, and leaned over the rail, looking out and over the gimcrack shore buildings with their staring, blatant, ugly modernity. "It's all very well," he said, "for you to take it lightly, but it happens to be so amazingly true. I'm always seeing things with you."
Ursula studied his shoulders in her silent way for a minute or two. Then she got up. "I've to wash for luncheon, Paul," she said, as she moved away, "and don't forget we go ashore afterwards."