voice. 'I don't want you any further.'

He bade her good-night, watched her across to the stairs and mount
slowly. Then he closed the door and came back to Gudrun. Gudrun rose
also, to go.

'A queer being, my mother,' he said.

'Yes,' replied Gudrun.

'She has her own thoughts.'

'Yes,' said Gudrun.

Then they were silent.

'You want to go?' he asked. 'Half a minute, I'll just have a horse put
in--'

'No,' said Gudrun. 'I want to walk.'

He had promised to walk with her down the long, lonely mile of drive,
and she wanted this.

'You might JUST as well drive,' he said.

'I'd MUCH RATHER walk,' she asserted, with emphasis.

'You would! Then I will come along with you. You know where your things
are? I'll put boots on.'

He put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress. They went out
into the night.

'Let us light a cigarette,' he said, stopping in a sheltered angle of
the porch. 'You have one too.'

So, with the scent of tobacco on the night air, they set off down the
dark drive that ran between close-cut hedges through sloping meadows.

He wanted to put his arm round her. If he could put his arm round her,
and draw her against him as they walked, he would equilibriate himself.
For now he felt like a pair of scales, the half of which tips down and
down into an indefinite void. He must recover some sort of balance. And
here was the hope and the perfect recovery.

Blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm softly round
her waist, and drew her to him. Her heart fainted, feeling herself
taken. But then, his arm was so strong, she quailed under its powerful
close grasp. She died a little death, and was drawn against him as they
walked down the stormy darkness. He seemed to balance her perfectly in
opposition to himself, in their dual motion of walking. So, suddenly,
he was liberated and perfect, strong, heroic.

He put his hand to his mouth and threw his cigarette away, a gleaming
point, into the unseen hedge. Then he was quite free to balance her.

'That's better,' he said, with exultancy.

The exultation in his voice was like a sweetish, poisonous drug to her.
Did she then mean so much to him! She sipped the poison.

'Are you happier?' she asked, wistfully.

'Much better,' he said, in the same exultant voice, 'and I was rather
far gone.'

She nestled against him. He felt her all soft and warm, she was the
rich, lovely substance of his being. The warmth and motion of her w