Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.

‘Well,’ he said in his weakened voice, ‘and how are you and Winifred getting on?’

‘Oh, very well indeed,’ replied Gudrun.

There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man’s dying.

‘The studio answers all right?’ he said.

‘Splendid. It couldn’t be more beautiful and perfect,’ said Gudrun.

She waited for what he would say next.

‘And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?’

It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.

‘I’m sure she has. She will do good things one day.’

‘Ah! Then her life won’t be altogether wasted, you think?’

Gudrun was rather surprised.

‘Sure it won’t!’ she exclaimed softly.

‘That’s right.’

Again Gudrun waited for what he would say.

‘You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn’t it?’ he asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun.

‘Yes,’ she smiled—she would lie at random—‘I get a pretty good time I believe.’

‘That’s right. A happy nature is a great asset.’

Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did one have to die like this—having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? Was there no other way? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the triumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till it disappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired the self–possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. But she loathed the death itself. She was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not recognise anything beyond.

‘You are quite all right here?—nothing we can do for you?—nothing you find wrong in your position?’

‘Except that you are too good to me,’ said Gudrun.

‘Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,’ he said, and he felt a little exultation, that he had made this speech.

He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death began to creep back on him, in reaction.

Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry on Winifred’s education. But he did not live in the house, he was connected with the Grammar School.

One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin to town, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:

‘Do you think my father’s going to die, Miss Brangwen?’

Gudrun started.