He was looking bright and abstracted, puzzled, for the moment. She stretched out her beautiful arm, with its fluff of green tulle, and touched his chin with her subtle, artist’s fingers.

‘What are they then?’ she asked, with a strange, knowing smile.

‘What?’ he replied, his eyes suddenly dilating with wonder.

‘Your thoughts.’

Gerald looked like a man coming awake.

‘I think I had none,’ he said.

‘Really!’ she said, with grave laughter in her voice.

And to Birkin it was as if she killed Gerald, with that touch.

‘Ah but,’ cried Gudrun, ‘let us drink to Britannia—let us drink to Britannia.’

It seemed there was wild despair in her voice. Gerald laughed, and filled the glasses.

‘I think Rupert means,’ he said, ‘that NATIONALLY all Englishmen must die, so that they can exist individually and—’

‘Super–nationally—’ put in Gudrun, with a slight ironic grimace, raising her glass.

The next day, they descended at the tiny railway station of Hohenhausen, at the end of the tiny valley railway. It was snow everywhere, a white, perfect cradle of snow, new and frozen, sweeping up an either side, black crags, and white sweeps of silver towards the blue pale heavens.

As they stepped out on the naked platform, with only snow around and above, Gudrun shrank as if it chilled her heart.

‘My God, Jerry,’ she said, turning to Gerald with sudden intimacy, ‘you’ve done it now.’

‘What?’

She made a faint gesture, indicating the world on either hand.

‘Look at it!’

She seemed afraid to go on. He laughed.

They were in the heart of the mountains. From high above, on either side, swept down the white fold of snow, so that one seemed small and tiny in a valley of pure concrete heaven, all strangely radiant and changeless and silent.

‘It makes one feel so small and alone,’ said Ursula, turning to Birkin and laying her hand on his arm.

‘You’re not sorry you’ve come, are you?’ said Gerald to Gudrun.

She looked doubtful. They went out of the station between banks of snow.

‘Ah,’ said Gerald, sniffing the air in elation, ‘this is perfect. There’s our sledge. We’ll walk a bit—we’ll run up the road.’

Gudrun, always doubtful, dropped her heavy coat on the sledge, as he did his, and they set off. Suddenly she threw up her head and set off scudding along the road of snow, pulling her cap down over her ears. Her blue, bright dress fluttered in the wind, her thick scarlet stockings were brilliant above the whiteness. Gerald watched her: she seemed to be rushing towards her fate, and leaving him behind. He let her get some distance, then, loosening his limbs, he went after her.

Everywhere was deep and silent snow. Great snow–eaves weighed down the broad–roofed Tyrolese houses, that were sunk to the window–sashes in snow. Peasant–women, full–skirted, wearing each a cross–over shawl, and thick snow–boots, turned in the way to look at the soft, determined girl running with such heavy fleetness from the man, who was overtaking her, but not gaining any power over her.