d at her a long time.

'Do you?' she said at last. And this utterance seemed to her a mark of
Ursula's far distance from herself. For to Hermione suffering was the
greatest reality, come what might. Yet she too had a creed of
happiness.

'Yes,' she said. 'One SHOULD be happy--' But it was a matter of will.

'Yes,' said Hermione, listlessly now, 'I can only feel that it would be
disastrous, disastrous--at least, to marry in a hurry. Can't you be
together without marriage? Can't you go away and live somewhere without
marriage? I do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. I
think for you even more than for him--and I think of his health--'

'Of course,' said Ursula, 'I don't care about marriage--it isn't really
important to me--it's he who wants it.'

'It is his idea for the moment,' said Hermione, with that weary
finality, and a sort of SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT infallibility.

There was a pause. Then Ursula broke into faltering challenge.

'You think I'm merely a physical woman, don't you?'

'No indeed,' said Hermione. 'No, indeed! But I think you are vital and
young--it isn't a question of years, or even of experience--it is
almost a question of race. Rupert is race-old, he comes of an old
race--and you seem to me so young, you come of a young, inexperienced
race.'

'Do I!' said Ursula. 'But I think he is awfully young, on one side.'

'Yes, perhaps childish in many respects. Nevertheless--'

They both lapsed into silence. Ursula was filled with deep resentment
and a touch of hopelessness. 'It isn't true,' she said to herself,
silently addressing her adversary. 'It isn't true. And it is YOU who
want a physically strong, bullying man, not I. It is you who want an
unsensitive man, not I. You DON'T know anything about Rupert, not
really, in spite of the years you have had with him. You don't give him
a woman's love, you give him an ideal love, and that is why he reacts
away from you. You don't know. You only know the dead things. Any
kitchen maid would know something about him, you don't know. What do
you think your knowledge is but dead understanding, that doesn't mean a
thing. You are so false, and untrue, how could you know anything? What
is the good of your talking about love--you untrue spectre of a woman!
How can you know anything, when you don't believe? You don't believe in
yourself and your own womanhood, so what good is your conceited,
shallow cleverness--!'

The two women sat on in antagonistic