is there,' he said, in rather an uneasy voice. 'She is going
away in two days. I suppose I ought to say good-bye to her. I shall
never see her again.'

Ursula drew away, closed in a violent silence. He knitted his brows,
and his eyes began to sparkle again in anger.

'You don't mind, do you?' he asked irritably.

'No, I don't care. Why should I? Why should I mind?' Her tone was
jeering and offensive.

'That's what I ask myself,' he said; 'why SHOULD you mind! But you seem
to.' His brows were tense with violent irritation.

'I ASSURE you I don't, I don't mind in the least. Go where you
belong-it's what I want you to do.'

'Ah you fool!' he cried, 'with your "go where you belong." It's
finished between Hermione and me. She means much more to YOU, if it
comes to that, than she does to me. For you can only revolt in pure
reaction from her-and to be her opposite is to be her counterpart.'

'Ah, opposite!' cried Ursula. 'I know your dodges. I am not taken in by
your word-twisting. You belong to Hermione and her dead show. Well, if
you do, you do. I don't blame you. But then you've nothing to do with
me.

In his inflamed, overwrought exasperation, he stopped the car, and they
sat there, in the middle of the country lane, to have it out. It was a
crisis of war between them, so they did not see the ridiculousness of
their situation.

'If you weren't a fool, if only you weren't a fool,' he cried in bitter
despair, 'you'd see that one could be decent, even when one has been
wrong. I WAS wrong to go on all those years with Hermione--it was a
deathly process. But after all, one can have a little human decency.
But no, you would tear my soul out with your jealousy at the very
mention of Hermione's name.'

'I jealous! I--jealous! You ARE mistaken if you think that. I'm not
jealous in the least of Hermione, she is nothing to me, not THAT!' And
Ursula snapped her fingers. 'No, it's you who are a liar. It's you who
must return, like a dog to his vomit. It is what Hermione STANDS FOR
that I HATE. I HATE it. It is lies, it is false, it is death. But you
want it, you can't help it, you can't help yourself. You belong to that
old, deathly way of living--then go back to it. But don't come to me,
for I've nothing to do with it.'

And in the stress of her violent emotion, she got down from the car and
went to the hedgerow, picking unconsciously some flesh-pink
spindleberries, some of which were burst, showing their orange seeds.