We'll have our high tea at the Saracen's Head.'
As they descended, they heard the Minster bells playing a hymn, when the hour had struck six.
Glory to thee my God this night For all the blessings of the light— So, to Ursula's ear, the tune fell out, drop by drop, from the unseen sky on to the dusky town.
It was like dim, bygone centuries sounding.
It was all so far off.
She stood in the old yard of the inn, smelling of straw and stables and petrol.
Above, she could see the first stars.
What was it all?
This was no actual world, it was the dream-world of one's childhood—a great circumscribed reminiscence.
The world had become unreal.
She herself was a strange, transcendent reality.
They sat together in a little parlour by the fire.
'Is it true?' she said, wondering.
'What?'
'Everything—is everything true?'
'The best is true,' he said, grimacing at her.
'Is it?' she replied, laughing, but unassured. She looked at him.
He seemed still so separate.
New eyes were opened in her soul.
She saw a strange creature from another world, in him.
It was as if she were enchanted, and everything were metamorphosed.
She recalled again the old magic of the Book of Genesis, where the sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair.
And he was one of these, one of these strange creatures from the beyond, looking down at her, and seeing she was fair.
He stood on the hearth-rug looking at her, at her face that was upturned exactly like a flower, a fresh, luminous flower, glinting faintly golden with the dew of the first light.
And he was smiling faintly as if there were no speech in the world, save the silent delight of flowers in each other.
Smilingly they delighted in each other's presence, pure presence, not to be thought of, even known.
But his eyes had a faintly ironical contraction.
And she was drawn to him strangely, as in a spell.
Kneeling on the hearth-rug before him, she put her arms round his loins, and put her face against his thigh.
Riches! Riches!
She was overwhelmed with a sense of a heavenful of riches.
'We love each other,' she said in delight.
'More than that,' he answered, looking down at her with his glimmering, easy face.
Unconsciously, with her sensitive fingertips, she was tracing the back of his thighs, following some mysterious life-flow there.
She had discovered something, something more than wonderful, more wonderful than life itself.
It was the strange mystery of his life-motion, there, at the back of the thighs, down the flanks.
It was a strange reality of his being, the very stuff of being, there in the straight downflow of the thighs.
It was here she discovered him one of the sons of God such as were in the beginning of the world, not a man, something other, something more.
This was release at last.
She had had lovers, she had known passion.
But this was neither love nor passion.
It was the daughters of men coming back to the sons of God, the strange inhuman sons of God who are in the beginning.
Her face was now one dazzle of released, golden light, as she looked up at him, and laid her hands full on his thighs, behind, as he stood before her.
He looked down at her with a rich bright brow like a diadem above his eyes.
She was beautiful as a new marvellous flower opened at his knees, a paradisal flower she was, beyond womanhood, such a flower of luminousness.
Yet something was tight and unfree in him.
He did not like this crouching, this radiance—not altogether.
It was all achieved, for her.
She had found one of the sons of God from the Beginning, and he had found one of the first most luminous daughters of men.
She traced with her hands the line of his loins and thighs, at the back, and a living fire ran through her, from him, darkly.