,
leaving him outside the gate.

Then even whilst she was escaping, or trying to escape, this
feeling of pain, came Maggie the next day, saying:

"I wouldn't make Anthony love you, Ursula, if you don't want
him. It is not nice."

"But, Maggie, I never made him love me," cried Ursula,
dismayed and suffering, and feeling as if she had done something
base.

She liked Anthony, though. All her life, at intervals, she
returned to the thought of him and of that which he offered. But
she was a traveller, she was a traveller on the face of the
earth, and he was an isolated creature living in the fulfilment
of his own senses.

She could not help it, that she was a traveller. She knew
Anthony, that he was not one. But oh, ultimately and finally,
she must go on and on, seeking the goal that she knew she did
draw nearer to.

She was wearing away her second and last cycle at St.
Philip's. As the months went she ticked them off, first October,
then November, December, January. She was careful always to
subtract a month from the remainder, for the summer holidays.
She saw herself travelling round a circle, only an arc of which
remained to complete. Then, she was in the open, like a bird
tossed into mid-air, a bird that had learned in some measure to
fly.

There was college ahead; that was her mid-air, unknown,
spacious. Come college, and she would have broken from the
confines of all the life she had known. For her father was also
going to move. They were all going to leave Cossethay.

Brangwen had kept his carelessness about his circumstances.
He knew his work in the lace designing meant little to him
personally, he just earned his wage by it. He did not know what
meant much to him. Living close to Anna Brangwen, his mind was
always suffused through with physical heat, he moved from
instinct to instinct, groping, always groping on.

When it was suggested to him that he might apply for one of
the posts as hand-work instructor, posts about to be created by
the Nottingham Education Committee, it was as if a space had
been given to him, into which he could remove from his hot,
dusky enclosure. He sent in his application, confidently,
expectantly. He had a sort of belief in his supernatural fate.
The inevitable weariness of his daily work had stiffened some of
his muscles, and made a slight deadness in his ruddy, alert
face. Now he might escape.

He was full of the new possibilities, and his wife was
acquiescent. She was