le outsider, rushing in where angels would fear to tread. But
then--fools must be suffered, if not gladly.

But Ursula was persistent too.

'As for your world of art and your world of reality,' she replied, 'you
have to separate the two, because you can't bear to know what you are.
You can't bear to realise what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality you
ARE really, so you say "it's the world of art." The world of art is
only the truth about the real world, that's all--but you are too far
gone to see it.'

She was white and trembling, intent. Gudrun and Loerke sat in stiff
dislike of her. Gerald too, who had come up in the beginning of the
speech, stood looking at her in complete disapproval and opposition. He
felt she was undignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over the
esotericism which gave man his last distinction. He joined his forces
with the other two. They all three wanted her to go away. But she sat
on in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing violently, her fingers
twisting her handkerchief.

The others maintained a dead silence, letting the display of Ursula's
obtrusiveness pass by. Then Gudrun asked, in a voice that was quite
cool and casual, as if resuming a casual conversation:

'Was the girl a model?'

'Nein, sie war kein Modell. Sie war eine kleine Malschulerin.'

'An art-student!' replied Gudrun.

And how the situation revealed itself to her! She saw the girl
art-student, unformed and of pernicious recklessness, too young, her
straight flaxen hair cut short, hanging just into her neck, curving
inwards slightly, because it was rather thick; and Loerke, the
well-known master-sculptor, and the girl, probably well-brought-up, and
of good family, thinking herself so great to be his mistress. Oh how
well she knew the common callousness of it all. Dresden, Paris, or
London, what did it matter? She knew it.

'Where is she now?' Ursula asked.

Loerke raised his shoulders, to convey his complete ignorance and
indifference.

'That is already six years ago,' he said; 'she will be twenty-three
years old, no more good.'

Gerald had picked up the picture and was looking at it. It attracted
him also. He saw on the pedestal, that the piece was called 'Lady
Godiva.'

'But this isn't Lady Godiva,' he said, smiling good-humouredly. 'She
was the middle-aged wife of some Earl or other, who covered herself
with her long hair.'

'A la Maud Allan,' said Gudrun with a mocking grimace.

'Why Maud Allan?' he repl