But Ursula had just made what was perhaps the most illuminating discovery of her married life. That she was _still_ jealous of Christine, alone in the room. And yet--if she chose to make him so--Doug was hers, not Christine’s. And after a while, Chris would be to him as Doreen, who was as Monica and Kitty ... hardly even a memory! What phenomenal powers of oblivion this man possessed! She realized that she must make some response, however idiotic. “Yorkshire terriers, did you say, Doug?” “No. Fussy little brutes. Bull-pups--or Great Danes--but they eat such a devil of a lot. A Swedish forester I once knew told me....” Then it was not because of Doug that she so thirstily envied the other girl. It was because of the room. It was because of--no Doug. Ursula was breathless and aghast at what had taken place within herself. Up till now she had been genuinely unconscious that she had ceased to love her husband. She had suffered during the Doreen episode, during all the pre-Doreen episodes. And now here was Chris.... Oh, lucky, lucky Chris. Curled up between white walls, in a kingdom of solitude in which romance happens, and sorrow can be hidden and cried over, and dreams build themselves, and joy is borne away and buried as a dog lovingly buries a bone among the warm straw in its kennel and all night long nuzzles it and is glad of it; during the day thinks of it with sudden tiny ecstatic thrills as though it had whispered reminder.... Funny little mysterious child curled up alone between white walls. And here was the solid intimate Doug. [V] FOR a week Ursula, Doug and Christine each guarded their secret. Christine’s silent passion for Doug yet acknowledged him as remote and inaccessible--married. So far away had love carried her from the old cheap morality she had once shared with Gladys Willoughby. Besides, in Chris an urchin and a stoic dwelt together.... Supposing that Doug--who was _good_ right through--else he was not Doug--should despise her for her bewitchment? “He mustn’t know, and neither must Ursula” ... Ursula had been awfully decent on the whole. “Perhaps I had better go home,” Chris began to think, disconsolately. Doug, just emerging from the illusion that Ursula’s cure had worked splendidly, and that he had ceased to be susceptible to every wavelet of romance, was very careful indeed that Ursula should not guess how in Christine he had met the irresistible seventh wave which engulfs every strong man only once in a lifetime. He never meant that Chris should guess either, but he was less careful with her than with Ursula, and was often led by the primitive but reverent state of his feelings into such semi-betrayals as: “Oh, God, if only----” and then square-jawed silence--when describing to his little love the picturesque corners of the globe into which his restless wanderings had taken him, and would take him again and again ... each time the horizon pulled.