wife of a lieutenant in the Royal Engineers； the Sappers； as he
called them； living with the European population in
India……or being Ursula Brangwen； spinster； school…mistress。
She was qualified by her Intermediate Arts examination。 She
would probably even now get a post quite easily as assistant in
one of the higher grade schools； or even in Willey Green School。
Which was she to do？
She hated most of all entering the bondage of teaching once
more。 Very heartily she detested it。 Yet at the thought of
marriage and living with Skrebensky amid the European population
in India； her soul was locked and would not budge。 She had very
little feeling about it： only there was a deadlock。
Skrebensky waited； she waited； everybody waited for the
decision。 When Anton talked to her； and seemed insidiously to
suggest himself as a husband to her； she knew how utterly locked
out he was。 On the other hand； when she saw Dorothy； and
discussed the matter； she felt she would marry him promptly； at
once； as a sharp disavowal of adherence with Dorothy's
views。
The situation was almost ridiculous。
〃But do you love him？〃 asked Dorothy。
〃It isn't a question of loving him；〃 said Ursula。 〃I love him
well enough……certainly more than I love anybody else in the
world。 And I shall never love anybody else the same again。 We
have had the flower of each other。 But I don't care about love。
I don't value it。 I don't care whether I love or whether I
don't； whether I have love or whether I haven't。 What is it to
me？〃
And she shrugged her shoulders in fierce； angry contempt。
Dorothy pondered； rather angry and afraid。
〃Then what do you care about？〃 she asked；
exasperated。
〃I don't know；〃 said Ursula。 〃But something impersonal。
Love……love……love……what does it mean……what
does it amount to？ So much personal gratification。 It doesn't
lead anywhere。〃
〃It isn't supposed to lead anywhere； is it？〃 said Dorothy；
satirically。 〃I thought it was the one thing which is an end in
itself。〃
〃Then what does it matter to me？〃 cried Ursula。 〃As an end in
itself； I could love a hundred men； one after the other。 Why
should I end with a Skrebensky？ Why should I not go on； and love
all the types I fancy； one after another； if love is an end in
itself？ There are plenty of men who aren't Anton； whom I could
love……whom I would like to love。〃
〃Then you don't love him；〃 said Dorothy。
〃I tell you I do；……quite as much； and perhaps more than
I should love any of the others。 Only there are plenty of things
that aren't in Anton that I would love in the other men。〃
〃What； for instance？〃
〃It doesn't matter。 But a sort of strong understanding； in
some men； and then a dignity； a directness； something
unquestioned that there is in working men； and then a jolly；
reckless passionateness that you see……a man who could
really let go〃
Dorothy could feel that Ursula was already hankering after
something else； something that this man did not give her。
〃The question is； what do you want；〃 propounded
Dorothy。 〃Is it just other men？〃
Ursula was silenced。 This was her own dread。 Was she just
promiscuous？
〃Because if it is；〃 continued Dorothy； 〃you'd better marry
Anton。 The other can only end badly。〃
So out of fear of herself Ursula was to marry Skrebensky。
He was very busy now； preparing to go to India。 He must visit
relatives and contract business。 He was almost sure of Ursula
now。 She seemed to have given in。 And he seemed to bee again
an important； self…assured man。
It was the first week in August； and he was one of a large
party in a bungalow on the Lincolnshire coast。 It was a tennis；
golf； motor…car； motor…boat party； given by his great…aunt； a
lady of social pretensions。 Ursula was invited to spend the week
with the party。
She went rather reluctantly。 Her marriage was more or less
fixed for the twenty…eighth of the month。 They were to sail for
India on September the fifth。 One thing she knew； in her
subconsciousness； and that was； she would never sail for
India。
She and Anton； being important guests on account of the
ing marriage； had rooms in the large bungalow。 It was a big
place； with a great central hall； two smaller writing…rooms； and
then two corridors from which opened eight or nine bedrooms。
Skrebensky was put on one corridor； Ursula on the other。 They
felt very lost； in the crowd。
Being lovers； however； they were allowed to be out alone
together as much as they liked。 Yet she felt very strange； in
this crowd of strange people； uneasy； as if she had no privacy。
She was not used to these homogeneous crowds。 She was
afraid。
She felt different from the rest of them； with their hard；
easy； shallow intimacy； that seemed to cost them so little。 She
felt she was not pronounced enough。 It was a kind of
hold…your…own unconventional atmosphere。
She did not like it。 In crowds； in assemblies of people； she
liked formality。 She felt she did not produce the right effect。
She was not effective： she was not beautiful： she was nothing。
Even before Skrebensky she felt unimportant； almost inferior。 He
could take his part very well with the rest。
He and she went out into the night。 There was a moon behind
clouds； shedding a diffused light； gleaming now and again in
bits of smoky mother…of…pearl。 So they walked together on the
wet； ribbed sands near the sea； hearing the run of the long；
heavy waves； that made a ghostly whiteness and a whisper。
He was sure of himself。 As she walked； the soft silk of her
dress……she wore a blue shantung； full…skirted……blew
away from the sea and flapped and clung to her legs。 She wished
it would not。 Everything seemed to give her away； and she could
not rouse herself to deny； she was so confused。
He would lead her away to a pocket in the sand…hills； secret
amid the grey thorn…bushes and the grey； glassy grass。 He held
her close against him； felt all her firm； unutterably desirable
mould of body through the fine fibre of the silk that fell about
her limbs。 The silk； slipping fierily on the hidden； yet
revealed roundness and firmness of her body； her loins； seemed
to run in him like fire； make his brain burn like brimstone。 She
liked it； the electric fire of the silk under his hands upon her
limbs； the fire flew over her； as he drew nearer and nearer to
discovery。 She vibrated like a jet of electric； firm fluid in
response。 Yet she did not feel beautiful。 All the time； she felt
she was not beautiful to him； only exciting。 ＇She let him take her；
and he seemed mad； mad with excited passion。 But she； as she lay
afterwards on the cold； soft sand； looking up at the blotted；
faintly luminous sky； felt that she was as cold now as she
had been before。 Yet he； breathing heavily； seemed almost savagely
satisfied。 He seemed revenged。
A little wind wafted the sea grass and passed over her face。 Where was the
supreme fulfilment she would never enjoy？ Why was she so cold； so
unroused； so indifferent？
As they went home； and she saw the many； hateful lights of the bungalow；
of several bungalows in a group； he said softly：
〃Don't lock your door。〃
〃I'd rather； here；〃 she said。
〃No； don't。 We belong to each other。 Don't l