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night long he held her fast against him。 She was passive；
acquiscent。 But her sleep was not very deep nor very real。
She woke in the morning to a sound of water dashed on a
courtyard； to sunlight streaming through a lattice。 She thought
she was in a foreign country。 And Skrebensky was there an
incubus upon her。
She lay still； thinking； whilst his arm was round her； his
head against her shoulders； his body against hers； just behind
her。 He was still asleep。
She watched the sunshine ing in bars through the
persiennes； and her immediate surroundings again melted
away。
She was in some other land； some other world； where the old
restraints had dissolved and vanished； where one moved freely；
not afraid of one's fellow men； nor wary； nor on the defensive；
but calm； indifferent； at one's ease。 Vaguely； in a sort of
silver light； she wandered at large and at ease。 The bonds of
the world were broken。 This world of England had vanished away。
She heard a voice in the yard below calling：
〃O Giovann'O'O'O'Giovann'！〃
And she knew she was in a new country； in a new life。 It was
very delicious to lie thus still； with one's soul wandering
freely and simply in the silver light of some other； simpler；
more finely natural world。
But always there was a foreboding waiting to mand her。 She
became more aware of Skrebensky。 She knew he was waking up。 She
must modify her soul； depart from her further world； for
him。
She knew he was awake。 He lay still； with a concrete
stillness； not as when he slept。 Then his arm tightened almost
convulsively upon her； and he said； half timidly：
〃Did you sleep well？〃
〃Very well。〃
〃So did I。〃
There was a pause。
〃And do you love me？〃 he asked。
She turned and looked at him searchingly。 He seemed outside
her。
〃I do；〃 she said。
But she said it out of placency and a desire not to be
harried。 There was a curious breach of silence between them；
which frightened him。
They lay rather late； then he rang for breakfast。 She wanted
to be able to go straight downstairs and away from the place；
when she got up。 She was happy in this room； but the thought of
the publicity of the hall downstairs rather troubled her。
A young Italian； a Sicilian； dark and slightly pockmarked；
buttoned up in a sort of grey tunic； appeared with the tray。 His
face had an almost African imperturbability； impassive；
inprehensible。
〃One might be in Italy；〃 Skrebensky said to him； genially。 A
vacant look； almost like fear； came on the fellow's face。 He did
not understand。
〃This is like Italy；〃 Skrebensky explained。
The face of the Italian flashed with a nonprehending
smile； he finished setting out the tray； and was gone。 He did
not understand： he would understand nothing： he disappeared from
the door like a halfdomesticated wild animal。 It made Ursula
shudder slightly； the quick； sharpsighted； intent animality of
the man。
Skrebensky was beautiful to her this morning； his face
softened and transfused with suffering and with love； his
movements very still and gentle。 He was beautiful to her； but
she was detached from him by a chill distance。 Always she seemed
to be bearing up against the distance that separated them。 But
he was unaware。 This morning he was transfused and beautiful。
She admired his movements； the way he spread honey on his roll；
or poured out the coffee。
When breakfast was over； she lay still again on the pillows；
whilst he went through his toilet。 She watched him； as he
sponged himself； and quickly dried himself with the towel。 His
body was beautiful； his movements intent and quick； she admired
him and she appreciated him without reserve。 He seemed pleted
now。 He aroused no fruitful fecundity in her。 He seemed added
up； finished。 She knew him all round； not on any side did he
lead into the unknown。 Poignant； almost passionate appreciation
she felt for him； but none of the dreadful wonder； none of the
rich fear； the connection with the unknown； or the reverence of
love。 He was； however； unaware this morning。 His body was quiet
and fulfilled； his veins plete with satisfaction； he was
happy； finished。
Again she went home。 But this time he went with her。 He
wanted to stay by her。 He wanted her to marry him。 It was
already July。 In early September he must sail for India。 He
could not bear to think of going alone。 She must e with him。
Nervously； he kept beside her。
Her examination was finished； her college career was over。
There remained for her now to marry or to work again。 She
applied for no post。 It was concluded she would marry。 India
tempted herthe strange； strange land。 But with the
thought of Calcutta； or Bombay； or of Simla； and of the European
population； India was no more attractive to her than
Nottingham。
She had failed in her examination： she had gone down： she had
not taken her degree。 It was a blow to her。 It hardened her
soul。
〃It doesn't matter；〃 he said。 〃What are the odds； whether you
are a Bachelor of Arts or not； according to the London
University？ All you know； you know； and if you are Mrs。
Skrebensky； the B。A。 is meaningless。〃
Instead of consoling her； this made her harder； more
ruthless。 She was now up against her own fate。 It was for her to
choose between being Mrs。 Skrebensky； even Baroness Skrebensky；
wife of a lieutenant in the Royal Engineers； the Sappers； as he
called them； living with the European population in
Indiaor being Ursula Brangwen； spinster； schoolmistress。
She was qualified by her Intermediate Arts examination。 She
would probably even now get a post quite easily as assistant in
one of the higher grade schools； or even in Willey Green School。
Which was she to do？
She hated most of all entering the bondage of teaching once
more。 Very heartily she detested it。 Yet at the thought of
marriage and living with Skrebensky amid the European population
in India； her soul was locked and would not budge。 She had very
little feeling about it： only there was a deadlock。
Skrebensky waited； she waited； everybody waited for the
decision。 When Anton talked to her； and seemed insidiously to
suggest himself as a husband to her； she knew how utterly locked
out he was。 On the other hand； when she saw Dorothy； and
discussed the matter； she felt she would marry him promptly； at
once； as a sharp disavowal of adherence with Dorothy's
views。
The situation was almost ridiculous。
〃But do you love him？〃 asked Dorothy。
〃It isn't a question of loving him；〃 said Ursula。 〃I love him
well enoughcertainly 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。
Lovelovelovewhat does it meanwhat
does it amount to？ So much personal gratification。 It doesn't
lead anywhere。〃
〃It isn't supposed to lead anywhere； is it？〃 said Dorothy；
satirically。 〃I thought it was the one thing which is an end in
itself。〃
〃Then what does it matter to me？〃 cried Ursula。 〃As an end in
itself； I could love a hundred men； one after the other。 Why
should I end with a Skrebensky？ Why should I not go on； and love
all the types I fancy； one after another； if love is an end in
itself？ There are plenty of men who aren't Anton； whom I could
lovewhom I would like to love。〃
〃Then you don't love him；〃 said Dorothy。
〃I tell you I do；quite as much； and perhaps more than
I should love any of the others。 Only there are plenty of things
that aren't in Anton that I would love in the other men。〃
〃What； for instance？〃
〃It doesn't matter。 But a sort of strong understanding； in
some men； and then a dignity； a directness； something
unquestioned that there is in working men； and then a jolly；
reckless passionateness that you seea man who could
really let go〃
Dorothy could feel that Ursula was already hankering after
something else； something that this man did not give her。
〃The question is； what do you want；〃 propounded
Dorothy。 〃Is it just other men？〃
Ursula was silenced。 This was her own dread。 Was she just
promiscuous？
〃Because if it is；〃 continued Dorothy； 〃you'd better marry
Anton。 The other can only end badly。〃
So out of fear of herself Ursula was to marry Skrebensky。
He was very busy now； preparing to go to India。 He must visit
relatives and contract business。 He was almost sure of Ursula
now。 She seemed to have given in。 And he seemed to bee again
an important； selfassured man。
It was the first week in August； and he was one of a large
party in a bungalow on the Lincolnshire coast。 It was a tennis；
golf； motorcar； motorboat party； given by his greataunt； a
lady of social pretensions。 Ursula was invited to spend the week
with the party。
She went rather reluctantly。 Her marriage was more or less
fixed for the twentyeighth of the month。 They were to sail for
India on September the fifth。 One thing she knew； in her
subconsciousness； and that was； she would never sail for
India。
She and Anton； being important guests on account of the
ing marriage； had rooms in the large bungalow。 It was a big
place； with a great central hall； two smaller writingrooms； and
then two corridors from which opened eight or nine bedrooms。
Skrebensky was put on one corridor； Ursula on the other。 They
felt very lost； in the crowd。
Being lovers； however； they were allowed to be out alone
together as much as they liked。 Yet she felt very strange； in
this crowd of strange people； uneasy； as if she had no privacy。
She was not used to these homogeneous crowds。 She was
afraid。
She felt different from the rest of them； with their hard；
easy； shallow intimacy； that seemed to cost them so little。 She
felt she was not pronounced enough。 It was a kind of
holdyourown unconventional atmosphere。
She did not like it。 In crowds； in assemblies of people； she
liked formality。 She felt she did not produce the right effect。
She was not effective： she was not beautiful： she was nothing。
Even before Skrebensky she felt unimportant； almost inferior。 He
could take his part very well with the rest。
He and she went out into the night。 There was a moon behind
clouds； shedding a diffused light； gleaming now and again in
bits of smoky motherofpearl。 So they walked together on the
wet； ribbed sands near the sea； hearing the run of the long；
heavy waves； that made a ghostly whiteness and a whisper。
He was sure of himself。 As she walked； the soft silk of her
dressshe wore a blue shantung； fullskirtedblew
away from the sea and flapped and clung to her legs。 She wished
it would not。 Everything seemed to give her away； and she could
not rouse herself to deny； she was so confused。
He would lead her away to a pocket in the sandhills； secret
amid the grey thornbushes and the grey； glassy grass。 He held
her close against him； felt all her firm； unutterably desirable
mould of body through the fine fibre of the silk that fell about
her limbs。 The silk； slipping fierily on the hidden； yet
revealed roundness and firmness of her body； her loins； seemed
to run in him like fire； make his brain burn like brimstone。 She
liked it； the electric fire of the silk under his hands upon her
limbs； the fire flew over her； as he drew nearer and nearer to
discovery。 She vibrated like a jet of electric； firm fluid in
response。 Yet she did not feel beautiful。 All the time； she felt
she was not beautiful to him； only exciting。 ＇She let him take her；
and he seemed mad； mad with excited passion。 But she； as she lay
afterwards on the cold； soft sand； looking up at the blotted；
faintly luminous sky； felt that she was as cold now as she
had been before。 Yet he； breathing heavily； seemed almost savagely
satisfied。 He seemed revenged。
A little wind wafted the sea grass and passed over her face。 Where was the
supreme fulfilment she would never enjoy？ Why was she so cold； so
unroused； so indifferent？
As they went home； and she sa