The Rainbow

"What did she do?"

"She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to

see her."

"Does he love her?"

"It's a year and a half he's been with her now."

"What was she like?"

"Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice

eyebrows."

Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the

outer world.

"Do all men have lovers?" she asked, amazed at her own

temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and his face

still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm.

"They're always mentioning some amazing fine woman or other,

and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them dash up to

London the moment they are free."

"What for?"

"To some amazing fine woman or other."

"What sort of woman?"

"Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule. One

of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suit-case always

ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it to the

station, and changes in the train. No matter who is in the

carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least the top

half of his toilet."

Ursula quivered and wondered.

"Why is he in such a hurry?" she asked.

Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.

"He's got a woman in his mind, I suppose."

She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions and

lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a splendid

recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning. It seemed

very splendid.

That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and

Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away from

him. And she was waiting, waiting for something more.

In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about

them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal

world. Now a new state should come to pass.

He walked near to her, and with the same, silent, intent

approach put his arm round her waist, and softly, very softly,

drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon her;

she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce

touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface of his

body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious swoon of

motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent nearer to her, her

head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his warm breath on her

face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly that she seemed to faint

away, his lips touched her cheek, and she drifted through

strands of heat and darkness.

Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited, like

the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face

was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their

footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees,

whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly that

does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a little

nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her, and drew

her close.