ke a half-domesticated wild animal. It made Ursula
shudder slightly, the quick, sharp-sighted, 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 completed
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 complete 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 come 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 her--the 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 be