Women in Love

'But how beautiful they are!' she said, in a muffled voice. Then, with

a strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed Winifred.

Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her.

'I was afraid you were going to run away from us,' he said, playfully.

Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face.

'Really!' she replied. 'No, I didn't want to stay in London.' Her voice

seemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortlands, her tone

was warm and subtly caressing.

'That is a good thing,' smiled the father. 'You see you are very

welcome here among us.' Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. She

was unconsciously carried away by her own power.

'And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph,' Mr Crich

continued, holding her hand.

'No,' she said, glowing strangely. 'I haven't had any triumph till I

came here.' 'Ah, come, come! We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't we

read notices in the newspaper, Gerald?' 'You came off pretty well,' said Gerald to her, shaking hands. 'Did you

sell anything?' 'No,' she said, 'not much.' 'Just as well,' he said.

She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow with her reception,

carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf.

'Winifred,' said the father, 'have you a pair of shoes for Miss

Brangwen? You had better change at once--' Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand.

'Quite a remarkable young woman,' said the father to Gerald, when she

had gone.

'Yes,' replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation.

Mr Crich liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he was

ashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon as

he rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quite

well and in the midst of life--not of the outer world, but in the midst

of a strong essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributed

perfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precious

half-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemed

to live more than he had ever lived.

She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was like

yellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. His black beard,

now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of a

corpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrun

subscribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinary

man. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon her

soul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that, in spite of his

playfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy,

they were the eyes of a man who is dead.