He lay still and laughed, meditating.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we can go away—we can go tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow to Verona, and find Romeo and Juliet, and sit in the amphitheatre—shall we?’

Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with perplexity and shyness. He lay so untrammelled.

‘Yes,’ she said softly, filled with relief. She felt her soul had new wings, now he was so uncaring. ‘I shall love to be Romeo and Juliet,’ she said. ‘My love!’

‘Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona,’ he said, ‘from out of the Alps. We shall have the smell of the snow in our noses.’

She sat up and looked at him.

‘Are you glad to go?’ she asked, troubled.

His eyes were inscrutable and laughing. She hid her face against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading:

‘Don’t laugh at me—don’t laugh at me.’

‘Why how’s that?’ he laughed, putting his arms round her.

‘Because I don’t want to be laughed at,’ she whispered.

He laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely perfumed hair.

‘Do you love me?’ she whispered, in wild seriousness.

‘Yes,’ he answered, laughing.

Suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed. Her lips were taut and quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate. He waited a few moments in the kiss. Then a shade of sadness went over his soul.

‘Your mouth is so hard,’ he said, in faint reproach.

‘And yours is so soft and nice,’ she said gladly.

‘But why do you always grip your lips?’ he asked, regretful.

‘Never mind,’ she said swiftly. ‘It is my way.’

She knew he loved her; she was sure of him. Yet she could not let go a certain hold over herself, she could not bear him to question her. She gave herself up in delight to being loved by him. She knew that, in spite of his joy when she abandoned herself, he was a little bit saddened too. She could give herself up to his activity. But she could not be herself, she DARED not come forth quite nakedly to his nakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure faith with him. She abandoned herself to HIM, or she took hold of him and gathered her joy of him. And she enjoyed him fully. But they were never QUITE together, at the same moment, one was always a little left out. Nevertheless she was glad in hope, glorious and free, full of life and liberty. And he was still and soft and patient, for the time.

They made their preparations to leave the next day. First they went to Gudrun’s room, where she and Gerald were just dressed ready for the evening indoors.

‘Prune,’ said Ursula, ‘I think we shall go away tomorrow. I can’t stand the snow any more. It hurts my skin and my soul.’

‘Does it really hurt your soul, Ursula?’ asked Gudrun, in some surprise. ‘I can believe quite it hurts your skin—it is TERRIBLE. But I thought it was ADMIRABLE for the soul.’