And for a couple of years she was acquiescent; a schoolgirl, forgetting to wish madly to change things--change them and change them--a saraband defying stagnancy. Then Doug came ... and Doug talked ... and all the world was a romantic platitude of lagoons, and moonlight, and the domes and minarets of Eastern cities, quays of Rio, humming-birds and flying fish, and stars blazing on a phosphorescent sea. Doug-land. His richly-coloured wooing had dwindled her loss of the room to a size unimportant and of no significance; a small shabby bedroom with outlook on to a cistern and a wall--what a silly fuss her spirit had made of it! The after spectacle of her husband falling freshly in love each time he happened to see a moderately attractive girl crossing the room, began, after several years, to impress Ursula as again something ugly and unnecessary enough for another wild spurt of divine interference. “Divine” to be interpreted not as humble prayer for intercession from the skies; but as that sudden wrath which burst from her, and “chucked the furniture about!” as she once expressed it. The result of furniture-chucking, in this instance, was their removal to Arcadia. Now, in August of that summer, Ursula, lying on a flat rock at the base of the cliffs nearly level with the sea, realized that she had not even seen Arcadia, for the Arcadians. The Arcadians--and Doug. Doug came between her and the sky-line. She saw it over his shoulder. She looked around her, in search of that balm which is said to be concealed in beauty: sea ... yes, green--a great many greens. But what is green, after all, without hysteria to describe it in simile and rapture? And the royal moors turned back in brocaded purple from the top of the cliff. “‘Royal’ and ‘brocaded’ are affectation,” murmured Ursula. “At least--I don’t know--I suppose I’m tired.”