So he went across to her； to get his sleeping suit。 It was always a
perfect adventure to go near to her。 She put her arms round him； and
snuffed his warm； softened skin。
〃Scent；〃 she said。
〃Soap；〃 he answered。
〃Soap；〃 she repeated； looking up with bright eyes。 They were both
laughing； always laughing。＇
Soon they were fast asleep； asleep till midday； close
together； sleeping one sleep。 Then they awoke to the
ever…changing reality of their state。 They alone inhabited the
world of reality。 All the rest lived on a lower sphere。
Whatever they wanted to do； they did。 They saw a few
people……Dorothy； whose guest she was supposed to be； and a
couple of friends of Skrebensky； young Oxford men； who called
her Mrs。 Skrebensky with entire simplicity。 They treated her；
indeed； with such respect； that she began to think she was
really quite of the whole universe； of the old world as well as
of the new。 She forgot she was outside the pale of the old
world。 She thought she had brought it under the spell of her
own； real world。 And so she had。
In such ever…changing reality the weeks went by。 All the
time； they were an unknown world to each other。 Every movement
made by the one was a reality and an adventure to the other。
They did not want outside excitements。 They went to very few
theatres； they were often in their sitting…room high up over
Piccadilly； with windows open on two sides； and the door open on
to the balcony； looking over the Green Park； or down upon the
minute travelling of the traffic。
Then suddenly； looking at a sunset； she wanted to go。 She
must be gone。 She must be gone at once。 And in two hours' time
they were at Charing Cross taking train for Paris。 Paris was his
suggestion。 She did not care where it was。 The great joy was in
setting out。 And for a few days she was happy in the novelty of
Paris。
Then； for some reason； she must call in Rouen on the way back
to London。 He had an instinctive mistrust of her desire for the
place。 But； perversely； she wanted to go there。 It was as if she
wanted to try its effect upon her。
For the first time； in Rouen； he had a cold feeling of death；
not afraid of any other man； but of her。 She seemed to leave
him。 She followed after something that was not him。 She did not
want him。 The old streets； the cathedral； the age and the
monumental peace of the town took her away from him。 She turned
to it as if to something she had forgotten； and wanted。 This was
now the reality； this great stone cathedral slumbering there in
its mass； which knew no transience nor heard any denial。 It was
majestic in its stability； its splendid absoluteness。
Her soul began to run by itself。 He did not realize； nor did
she。 Yet in Rouen he had the first deadly anguish； the first
sense of the death towards which they were wandering。 And she
felt the first heavy yearning； heavy； heavy hopeless warning；
almost like a deep； uneasy sinking into apathy；
hopelessness。
They returned to London。 But still they had two days。 He
began to tremble； he grew feverish with the fear of her
departure。 She had in her some fatal prescience； that made her
calm。 What would be； would be。
He remained fairly easy； however； still in his state of
heightened glamour； till she had gone； and he had turned away
from St。 Pancras； and sat on the tram…car going up Pimlico to
the 〃Angel〃； to Moorgate Street on Sunday evening。
Then the cold horror gradually soaked into him。 He saw the
horror of the City Road； he realized the ghastly cold sordidness
of the tram…car in which he sat。 Cold； stark； ashen sterility
had him surrounded。 Where then was the luminous； wonderful world
he belonged to by rights？ How did he e to be thrown on this
refuse…heap where he was？
He was as if mad。 The horror of the brick buildings； of the
tram…car； of the ashen…grey people in the street made him
reeling and blind as if drunk。 He went mad。 He had lived with
her in a close； living； pulsing world； where everything pulsed
with rich being。 Now he found himself struggling amid an
ashen…dry； cold world of rigidity； dead walls and mechanical
traffic； and creeping； spectre…like people。 The life was
extinct； only ash moved and stirred or stood rigid； there was a
horrible； clattering activity； a rattle like the falling of dry
slag； cold and sterile。 It was as if the sunshine that fell were
unnatural light exposing the ash of the town； as if the lights
at night were the sinister gleam of deposition。
Quite mad； beside himself； he went to his club and sat with a
glass of whisky； motionless； as if turned to clay。 He felt like
a corpse that is inhabited with just enough life to make it
appear as any other of the spectral； unliving beings which we
call people in our dead language。 Her absence was worse than
pain to him。 It destroyed his being。
Dead； he went on from lunch to tea。 His face was all the time
fixed and stiff and colourless； his life was a dry； mechanical
movement。 Yet even he wondered slightly at the awful misery that
had overe him。 How could he be so ashlike and extinct？ He
wrote her a letter。
I have been thinking that we must get married before long。 My
pay will be more when I get out to India； we shall be able to
get along。 Or if you don't want to go to India； I could very
probably stay here in England。 But I think you would like India。
You could ride； and you would know just everybody out there。
Perhaps if you stay on to take your degree； we might marry
immediately after that。 I will write to your father as soon as I
hear from you
He went on； disposing of her。 If only he could be with her！
All he wanted now was to marry her； to be sure of her。 Yet all
the time he was perfectly； perfectly hopeless； cold； extinct；
without emotion or connection。
He felt as if his life were dead。 His soul was extinct。 The
whole being of him had bee sterile； he was a spectre；
divorced from life。 He had no fullness； he was just a flat
shape。 Day by day the madness accumulated in him。 The horror of
not…being possessed him。
He went here； there； and everywhere。 But whatever he did； he
knew that only the cipher of him was there； nothing was filled
in。 He went to the theatre； what he heard and saw fell upon a
cold surface of consciousness； which was now all that he was；
there was nothing behind it； he could have no experience of any
sort。 Mechanical registering took place in him； no more。 He had
no being； no contents。 Neither had the people he came into
contact with。 They were mere permutations of known quantities。
There was no roundness or fullness in this world he now
inhabited； everything was a dead shape mental arrangement；
without life or being。
Much of the time； he was with friends and rades。 Then he
forgot everything。 Their activities made up for his own
negation； they engaged his negative horror。
He only became happy when he drank； and he drank a good deal。
Then he was just the opposite to what he had been。 He became a
warm； diffuse； glowing cloud； in a warm； diffuse formless
fashion。 Everything melted down into a rosy glow； and he was the
glow； and everything was the glow； everybody else was the glow；
and it was very nice； very nice。 He would sing songs； it was so
nice。
Ursula went back to Beldover shut and firm。 She loved
Skrebensky； of that she was resolved。 She would allow nothing
else。
She read his long； obsessed letter about getting married and
going to India； without any particular response。 She seemed to
ignore what he said about marriage。 It did not e home to her。
He seemed； throughout the greater part of his letter； to be
talking without much meaning。
She replied to him pleasantly and easily。 She rarely wrote
long letters。
India sounds lovely。 I can just see myself on an elephant
swaying between lanes of obsequious natives。 But I don't know if
father would let me go。 We must see。
I keep living over again the lovely times we have had。 But I
don't think you liked me quite so much towards the end； did you？
You did not like me when we left Paris。 Why didn't you？
I love you very much。 I love your body。 It is so clear and
fine。 I am glad you do not go naked； or all the women would fall
in love with you。 I am very jealous of it； I love it so
much。
He was more or less satisfied with this letter。 But day after
day he was walking about； dead； non…existent。
He could not e again to Nottingham until the end of April。
Then he persuaded her to go with him for a week…end to a
friend's house near Oxford。 By this time they were engaged。 He
had written to her father； and the thing was settled。 He brought
her an emerald ring； of which she was very proud。
Her people treated her now with a little distance； as if she
had already left them。 They left her very much alone。
She went with him for the three days in the country house
near Oxford。 It was delicious； and she was very happy。 But the
thing she remembered most was when； getting up in the morning
after he had gone back quietly to his own room； having spent the
night with her； she found herself very rich in being alone； and
enjoying to the full her solitary room； she drew up her blind
and saw the plum trees in the garden below all glittering and
snowy and delighted with the sunshine； in full bloom under a
blue sky。 They threw out their blossom； they flung it out under
the blue heavens； the whitest blossom！ How excited it made
her。
She had to hurry through her dressing to go and walk in the
garden under the plum trees； before anyone should e and talk
to her。 Out she slipped； and paced like a queen in fairy
pleasaunces。 The blossom was silver…shadowy when she looked up
from under the tree at the blue sky。 There was a faint scent； a
faint noise of bees； a orning。
She heard the breakfast gong and went indoors。
〃Where have you been？〃 asked the others。
〃I had to go out under the plum trees；〃 she said； her face
glowing like a flower。 〃It is so lovely。〃
A shadow of anger crossed Skrebensky's soul。 She had not
wanted him to be there。 He hardened his will。
At night there was a moon； and the blossom glistened ghostly；
they went together to look at it。 She saw the moonlight on his
face as he waited near her； and his features were like sil