"He's not so much lost sight of God. He's seeing Him truly at last."
Muriel considered this. "You mean His veil of beauty that you're so fond of talking about, and painting," she said. "Well, perhaps.... But still he thinks he keeps orthodox morality."
"He simply hasn't thought of that," said Ursula.
Muriel found a marker and shut her book. Her motions suggested that she was about to open a conversation, but she did not speak at once, though she put her book down and stretched herself out in her chair. But at last she spoke deliberately.
"Dear," she said, "I know what you think about all that.... Now Paul's in love with you, whether he knows it or whether he doesn't." (A little pause.) "You know it anyway. Also you're high priestess of his new religion."
She stopped. She seemed to think the other would say something, but that was not Ursula's way. Not for the first time, despite their friendship, Muriel found it irritating. "Look here, Ursula," she said, sitting up, "what's going to happen when he does begin to think about morality?"
A look grew in Ursula's face. Her friend studied her intently. "I say, Ursie," she said, but in a changed softened tone, "it's playing with fire. Paul's not quite an ordinary man."
Ursula made no direct reply. But the other understood her. "He's like a person who has glimpsed Paradise through the bars," she said.
"Yes?" queried Muriel.
"The gate's open," said Ursula simply, as the men came back.