complexion, some almost waxen quality, hid the strange, repellent grossness of him, the slight sense of putrescence, the commonness which revealed itself in his rather fat thighs and loins.

Winifred saw at once the deferential, slightly servile, slightly cunning regard he had for Ursula, which made the girl at once so proud and so perplexed.

“But is this place as awful as it looks?” the young girl asked, a strain in her eyes.

“It is just what it looks,” he said. “It hides nothing.”

“Why are the men so sad?”

“Are they sad?” he replied.

“They seem unutterably, unutterably sad,” said Ursula, out of a passionate throat.