asked Dorothy.

“It isn't a question of loving him,” said Ursula. “I love him well enough — certainly more than I love anybody else in the world. And I shall never love anybody else the same again.

We have had the flower of each other. But I don't care about love. I don't value it. I don't care whether I love or whether I don't, whether I have love or whether I haven't. What is it to me?”

And she shrugged her shoulders in fierce, angry contempt.

Dorothy pondered, rather angry and afraid.

“Then what do you care about?” she asked, exasperated.

“I don't know,” said Ursula. “But something impersonal. Love —