ying-pan
and the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free, to live the
free life of an artist. Even Gerald told father that only an artist is
free, because he lives in a creative world of his own--'

Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this letter.
Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at Shortlands, he was
using Winifred as his stalking-horse. The father thought only of his
child, he saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun. And Gudrun admired him for
his perspicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional. Gudrun
was quite content. She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend her
days at Shortlands. She disliked the Grammar School already thoroughly,
she wanted to be free. If a studio were provided, she would be free to
go on with her work, she would await the turn of events with complete
serenity. And she was really interested in Winifred, she would be quite
glad to understand the girl.

So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the day
Gudrun returned to Shortlands.

'You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when she
arrives,' Gerald said smiling to his sister.

'Oh no,' cried Winifred, 'it's silly.'

'Not at all. It is a very charming and ordinary attention.'

'Oh, it is silly,' protested Winifred, with all the extreme MAUVAISE
HONTE of her years. Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. She wanted
very much to carry it out. She flitted round the green-houses and the
conservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And the
more she looked, the more she LONGED to have a bunch of the blossoms
she saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision of
ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, till
she was almost beside herself. She could not get the idea out of her
mind. It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had
not enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into the
green-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at the
virginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. The
beauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if she
should have a perfect bouquet and could give it to Gudrun the next day.
Her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill.

At last she slid to her father's side.

'Daddie--' she said.

'What, my precious?'

But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in her
sensitive co