‘Of course,’ he resumed, ‘I wouldn’t NOT have had it! It’s a complete experience. And she’s a wonderful woman. But—how I hate her somewhere! It’s curious—’

Birkin looked at him, at his strange, scarcely conscious face. Gerald seemed blank before his own words.

‘But you’ve had enough now?’ said Birkin. ‘You have had your experience. Why work on an old wound?’

‘Oh,’ said Gerald, ‘I don’t know. It’s not finished—’

And the two walked on.

‘I’ve loved you, as well as Gudrun, don’t forget,’ said Birkin bitterly. Gerald looked at him strangely, abstractedly.

‘Have you?’ he said, with icy scepticism. ‘Or do you think you have?’ He was hardly responsible for what he said.

The sledge came. Gudrun dismounted and they all made their farewell. They wanted to go apart, all of them. Birkin took his place, and the sledge drove away leaving Gudrun and Gerald standing on the snow, waving. Something froze Birkin’s heart, seeing them standing there in the isolation of the snow, growing smaller and more isolated.

When Ursula and Birkin were gone, Gudrun felt herself free in her contest with Gerald. As they grew more used to each other, he seemed to press upon her more and more. At first she could manage him, so that her own will was always left free. But very soon, he began to ignore her female tactics, he dropped his respect for her whims and her privacies, he began to exert his own will blindly, without submitting to hers.

Already a vital conflict had set in, which frightened them both. But he was alone, whilst already she had begun to cast round for external resource.

When Ursula had gone, Gudrun felt her own existence had become stark and elemental. She went and crouched alone in her bedroom, looking out of the window at the big, flashing stars. In front was the faint shadow of the mountain–knot. That was the pivot. She felt strange and inevitable, as if she were centred upon the pivot of all existence, there was no further reality.

Presently Gerald opened the door. She knew he would not be long before he came. She was rarely alone, he pressed upon her like a frost, deadening her.

‘Are you alone in the dark?’ he said. And she could tell by his tone he resented it, he resented this isolation she had drawn round herself. Yet, feeling static and inevitable, she was kind towards him.

‘Would you like to light the candle?’ she asked.

He did not answer, but came and stood behind her, in the darkness.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘at that lovely star up there. Do you know its name?’

He crouched beside her, to look through the low window.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It is very fine.’

‘ISN’T it beautiful! Do you notice how it darts different coloured fires—it flashes really superbly—’

They remained in silence. With a mute, heavy gesture she put her hand on his knee, and took his hand.