"I'm not quite sure, Ursula," he said.
"There is clay that has not touched his eyes then," she replied gently.
Paul caught her hand. A glimmer of her meaning danced before him, but as a whole it still eluded him as yet. It eluded him, but there was something in her voice that made his blood run swift and hot as it had but just now in the café chantant. "Ursula, darling," he whispered.
She checked him. "You see, Paul," she said gently, "you were angry not because she was probably half a slave, or ill-treated, or ignorant, or as like as not solely out for your money. You didn't think of those things. No, you were angry because she was naked. That was beastly, immoral—that being what she was she gloried in her body and her grace. Well, it was not beastly to me, especially in her. What else had she to glory in? Why should she not have gloried in her body? Is a beautiful body beastly? She danced natural passion—is natural passion immoral? I cannot follow your theology. She was lovely and she gave us her best, and—well, I was glad to be able to thank her for it."
Paul's grip tightened on her hand. "Why, Ursula," he said huskily, "it was I who was beastly, priggish——"
She shrugged her shoulders. Then she laughed lightly. "Let that pass," she said. "Will you wear your flower now?"
"Give it me," cried Paul.
She peered up at him. Then she loosened her hand and took the bloom from her dress. "Here it is," she said, presenting it.
He held it in his fingers a moment or two, studying its fresh loveliness in the dim starlight. Its faint scent came to his nostrils. She stood smiling and looking at him.
He looked up suddenly. "May I drop it in the sea as we row back?" he asked.