“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.”