Women in Love

'And then you could see,' said Ursula.

'What?' 'How things went. I think it is best to take the honeymoon before the

wedding--don't you?' She was pleased with this MOT. He laughed.

'In certain cases,' he said. 'I'd rather it were so in my own case.' 'Would you!' exclaimed Ursula. Then doubtingly, 'Yes, perhaps you're

right. One should please oneself.' Birkin came in a little later, and Ursula told him what had been said.

'Gudrun!' exclaimed Birkin. 'She's a born mistress, just as Gerald is a

born lover--AMANT EN TITRE. If as somebody says all women are either

wives or mistresses, then Gudrun is a mistress.' 'And all men either lovers or husbands,' cried Ursula. 'But why not

both?' 'The one excludes the other,' he laughed.

'Then I want a lover,' cried Ursula.

'No you don't,' he said.

'But I do,' she wailed.

He kissed her, and laughed.

It was two days after this that Ursula was to go to fetch her things

from the house in Beldover. The removal had taken place, the family had

gone. Gudrun had rooms in Willey Green.

Ursula had not seen her parents since her marriage. She wept over the

rupture, yet what was the good of making it up! Good or not good, she

could not go to them. So her things had been left behind and she and

Gudrun were to walk over for them, in the afternoon.

It was a wintry afternoon, with red in the sky, when they arrived at

the house. The windows were dark and blank, already the place was

frightening. A stark, void entrance-hall struck a chill to the hearts

of the girls.

'I don't believe I dare have come in alone,' said Ursula. 'It frightens

me.' 'Ursula!' cried Gudrun. 'Isn't it amazing! Can you believe you lived in

this place and never felt it? How I lived here a day without dying of

terror, I cannot conceive!' They looked in the big dining-room. It was a good-sized room, but now a

cell would have been lovelier. The large bay windows were naked, the

floor was stripped, and a border of dark polish went round the tract of

pale boarding.

In the faded wallpaper were dark patches where furniture had stood,

where pictures had hung. The sense of walls, dry, thin, flimsy-seeming

walls, and a flimsy flooring, pale with its artificial black edges, was

neutralising to the mind. Everything was null to the senses, there was

enclosure without substance, for the walls were dry and papery. Where

were they standing, on earth, or suspended in some cardboard box? In

the hearth was burnt paper, and scraps of half-burnt paper.