Ursula put her hand on his arm. It was rather like Chanctonbury all over again, he thought instantly, and smiled involuntarily at the thought. Here, in Egypt, in the whirl of new experience, her touch on his arm brought back the song of the lark and the vision of the English sun on the fields and woods round Steyning. And she knew it.
"You old dear," she said. "What about the beggar's clay? Is clay magical in plants and flowers, and sinful in human bodies?"
"But that sort of thing outrages the moral law," he objected, soberly.
She laughed a very little. "Has God spoken His laws so clearly, Paul?" she said. "I thought you had come to the conclusion that He was rather silent."
"But there must be a moral law! Why, good heavens..."
"Then where is the moral Lawgiver?" she demanded, instantly.
Where is the moral Lawgiver?
"Where!" The word echoed in his consciousness, and he knew that he had no answer. Tramping over the sand, tramping through the night, he saw to what he had come, or thought he saw. Thus soon was Muriel answered.
Ursula laughed a little again. "Poor old Paul," she said. "Look here, dear, the girl gave us the best she had to give, and what she gave had real beauty. Isn't that enough for you and me?"
He made no answer, and they walked a little further in silence. Then her hand on his arm tightened. "Doesn't the blind beggar see?" she queried, smiling up at him in the dark.