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. "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. She read in his eyes what he meant, and if he had not been quite so blind and stupid and seeming rich he would have read in hers that the gate of Paradise stood open before him, as she had said to Muriel. But she saw that he had not read that yet, and if she was not quite content, she was at least very wise. "Because the sea is cool and lovely?" she asked. "And forgiving," he said. She nodded, understanding. (3)