‘Your poor nose!’ she said, looking at that feature of his face.

‘No wonder it’s ugly,’ he replied.

She was silent for some minutes, struggling with her own self–deception. It was an instinct in her, to deceive herself.

‘But I’M happy—I think life is AWFULLY jolly,’ she said.

‘Good,’ he answered, with a certain cold indifference.

She reached for a bit of paper which had wrapped a small piece of chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. He watched her without heeding her. There was something strangely pathetic and tender in her moving, unconscious finger–tips, that were agitated and hurt, really.

‘I DO enjoy things—don’t you?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes! But it infuriates me that I can’t get right, at the really growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I CAN’T get straight anyhow. I don’t know what really to DO. One must do something somewhere.’

‘Why should you always be DOING?’ she retorted. ‘It is so plebeian. I think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but just be oneself, like a walking flower.’

‘I quite agree,’ he said, ‘if one has burst into blossom. But I can’t get my flower to blossom anyhow. Either it is blighted in the bud, or has got the smother–fly, or it isn’t nourished. Curse it, it isn’t even a bud. It is a contravened knot.’

Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exasperated. But she was anxious and puzzled. How was one to get out, anyhow. There must be a way out somewhere.

There was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. She reached for another bit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat.

‘And why is it,’ she asked at length, ‘that there is no flowering, no dignity of human life now?’

‘The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry–rotten, really. There are myriads of human beings hanging on the bush—and they look very nice and rosy, your healthy young men and women. But they are apples of Sodom, as a matter of fact, Dead Sea Fruit, gall–apples. It isn’t true that they have any significance—their insides are full of bitter, corrupt ash.’

‘But there ARE good people,’ protested Ursula.

‘Good enough for the life of today. But mankind is a dead tree, covered with fine brilliant galls of people.’

Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was too picturesque and final. But neither could she help making him go on.

‘And if it is so, WHY is it?’ she asked, hostile. They were rousing each other to a fine passion of opposition.

‘Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won’t fall off the tree when they’re ripe. They hang on to their old positions when the position is over–past, till they become infested with little worms and dry–rot.’