Men do not understand constancy as women do. “I mean to,” she replied. You know the sort of thing. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. We were two people with a craving. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding. “On the stage? Yes. I followed you home on the train. ” The full significance of her words did not instantly appear to him. .
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