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By Root 14753 0

—they were sham. She did not believe in the inner life—it was a trick, not a reality. She did not believe in the spiritual world—it was an affectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, and the devil—these at least were not sham. She was a priestess without belief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn,1 and condemned to the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet there was no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was there then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for the old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess of desecrated mysteries? The old great truths had been true. And she was a leaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. To the old and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism and mockery took place at the bottom of her soul.

“I am so glad to see you,” she said to Ursula, in her slow voice, that was like an incantation. “You and Rupert have become quite friends?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ursula. “He is always somewhere in the background.”

Hermione paused before she answered. She saw perfectly well the other woman’s vaunt: it seemed truly vulgar.

“Is he?” she said slowly, and with perfect equanimity. “And do you think he will marry?”

The question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare and dispassionate that Ursula was somewhat taken aback, rather attracted. It pleased her almost like a wickedness. There was some delightful naked irony in Hermione.

“Well,” replied Ursula, “He wants to, awfully, but I’m not so sure.”

Hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. She noted this new expression of vaunting. How she envied Ursula a certain unconscious positivity! even her vulgarity!

“Why aren’t you sure?” she asked, in her easy sing-song. She was perfectly at her ease, perhaps even rather happy in this conversation. “You don’t really love him?”

Ursula flushed a little at the mild impertinence of this question. And yet she could not definitely take offence. Hermione seemed so calmly and sanely candid. After all, it was rather great to be able to be so sane.

“He says it isn’t love he wants,” she replied.

“What is it then?” Hermione was slow and level.

“He wants me really to accept him in marriage.”

Hermione was silent for some time, watching Ursula with slow, pensive eyes.

“Does he?” she said at length, without expression. Then, rousing, “And what is it you don’t want? You don’t want marriage?”

“No—I don’t—not really. I don’t want to give the sort of submission he insists on. He wants me to give myself up—and I simply don’t feel that I can do it.”

Again there was a long pause, before Hermione replied:

“Not if you don’t want to.” Then again there was silence. Hermione shuddered with a strange desire. Ah, if only he had asked her to subserve him, to be his slave! She shuddered with desire.

“You see 1 cant—”

“But exactly in what does—”

They had both begun at once, they both stopped. Then Hermione, assuming priority of speech, resumed as if wearily:

“To what does he want you to submit?”

“He says he wants me to accept him non-emotionally, and finally—I really don’t know what he means. He says he wants the demon part of himself to be mated—physically—not the human being. You see he says one thing one day, and another the next—and he always contradicts himself—”

“And always thinks about himself, and his own dissatisfaction,” said Hermione slowly.

“Yes,” cried Ursula. “As if there were no-one but himself concerned. That makes it so impossible.”

But immediately she began to retract.

“He insists on my accepting God knows what in him,” she resumed. “He wants me to accept him as—as an absolute—But it seems to me he doesn’t want to give anything. He doesn’t want real warm intimacy—he won’t have it—he rejects it. He won’t let me think, really, and he won’t let me feel-he hates feelings.”

There was a long pause, bitter for Hermione. Ah, if only he would have made this demand of her? Her he drove into thought, drove inexorably into knowledge—and then execrated her for it.

“He wants me to sink myself,