ed with nausea at the thought
of home;--one could travel on skis down there, and come to the old
imperial road, below the pass. But why come to any road? He revolted at
the thought of finding himself in the world again. He must stay up
there in the snow forever. He had been happy by himself, high up there
alone, travelling swiftly on skis, taking far flights, and skimming
past the dark rocks veined with brilliant snow.

But he felt something icy gathering at his heart. This strange mood of
patience and innocence which had persisted in him for some days, was
passing away, he would be left again a prey to the horrible passions
and tortures.

So he came down reluctantly, snow-burned, snow-estranged, to the house
in the hollow, between the knuckles of the mountain tops. He saw its
lights shining yellow, and he held back, wishing he need not go in, to
confront those people, to hear the turmoil of voices and to feel the
confusion of other presences. He was isolated as if there were a vacuum
round his heart, or a sheath of pure ice.

The moment he saw Gudrun something jolted in his soul. She was looking
rather lofty and superb, smiling slowly and graciously to the Germans.
A sudden desire leapt in his heart, to kill her. He thought, what a
perfect voluptuous fulfilment it would be, to kill her. His mind was
absent all the evening, estranged by the snow and his passion. But he
kept the idea constant within him, what a perfect voluptuous
consummation it would be to strangle her, to strangle every spark of
life out of her, till she lay completely inert, soft, relaxed for ever,
a soft heap lying dead between his hands, utterly dead. Then he would
have had her finally and for ever; there would be such a perfect
voluptuous finality.

Gudrun was unaware of what he was feeling, he seemed so quiet and
amiable, as usual. His amiability even made her feel brutal towards
him.

She went into his room when he was partially undressed. She did not
notice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred, with which he looked at
her. She stood near the door, with her hand behind her.

'I have been thinking, Gerald,' she said, with an insulting
nonchalance, 'that I shall not go back to England.'

'Oh,' he said, 'where will you go then?'

But she ignored his question. She had her own logical statement to
make, and it must be made as she had thought it.

'I can't see the use of going back,' she continued. 'It is over between
me and you--'

She