afternoon. She consented.
But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.

The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the motor-car, and she
sat beside him. But still her face was closed against him,
unresponding. When she became like this, like a wall against him, his
heart contracted.

His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. At
moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula or
Hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. Why bother! Why
strive for a coherent, satisfied life? Why not drift on in a series of
accidents-like a picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about human
relationships? Why take them seriously-male or female? Why form any
serious connections at all? Why not be casual, drifting along, taking
all for what it was worth?

And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious
living.

'Look,' he said, 'what I bought.' The car was running along a broad
white road, between autumn trees.

He gave her a little bit of screwed-up paper. She took it and opened
it.

'How lovely,' she cried.

She examined the gift.

'How perfectly lovely!' she cried again. 'But why do you give them me?'
She put the question offensively.

His face flickered with bored irritation. He shrugged his shoulders
slightly.

'I wanted to,' he said, coolly.

'But why? Why should you?'

'Am I called on to find reasons?' he asked.

There was a silence, whilst she examined the rings that had been
screwed up in the paper.

'I think they are BEAUTIFUL,' she said, 'especially this. This is
wonderful-'

It was a round opal, red and fiery, set in a circle of tiny rubies.

'You like that best?' he said.

'I think I do.'

'I like the sapphire,' he said.

'This?'

It was a rose-shaped, beautiful sapphire, with small brilliants.

'Yes,' she said, 'it is lovely.' She held it in the light. 'Yes,
perhaps it IS the best-'

'The blue-' he said.

'Yes, wonderful-'

He suddenly swung the car out of the way of a farm-cart. It tilted on
the bank. He was a careless driver, yet very quick. But Ursula was
frightened. There was always that something regardless in him which
terrified her. She suddenly felt he might kill her, by making some
dreadful accident with the motor-car. For a moment she was stony with
fear.

'Isn't it rather dangerous, the way you drive?' she asked him.

'No, it isn't dangerous,' he said. And then, after a pause: 'Don't you
l