that reminded her of the great prehistoric lizards. One day her Uncle Tom came in out of the broiling sunshine heated from walking. Then the perspiration stood out upon his head and brow, his hand was wet and hot and suffocating in its clasp. He too had something marshy about him—the succulent moistness and turgidity, and the same brackish, nauseating effect of a marsh, where life and decaying are one.
He was repellent to her, who was so dry and fine in her fire. Her very bones seemed to bid him keep his distance from her.
It was in these weeks that Ursula grew up. She stayed two weeks at Wiggiston, and she hated it. All was grey, dry ash, cold and dead and ugly. But she stayed. She stayed also to get rid of Winifred. The girl's hatred and her sense of repulsiveness in her mistress and in her uncle seemed to throw the other two together. They drew together as if against her.
In hardness and bitterness of soul, Ursula knew that Winifred was become her uncle's lover. She was glad. She had loved them both. Now she wanted to be rid of them both. Their marshy, bitter-sweet corruption came sick and unwholesome in her nostrils. Anything, to get out of the fœtid air. She would leave them both for ever, leave for ever their strange, soft, half-corrupt element. Anything to get away.
One night Winifred came all burning into Ursula's bed, and put her arms round the girl, holding her to herself in spite of unwillingness, and said,
"Dear, my dear,—shall I marry Mr. Brangwen—shall I?"
The clinging, heavy, muddy question weighed on Ursula intolerably.
"Has he asked you?" she said, using all her might of hard resistance.
"He's asked me," said Winifred. "Do you want me to marry him, Ursula?"
"Yes," said Ursula.
The arms tightened more on her.
"I knew you did, my sweet—and I will marry him. You're fond of him, aren't you?"
"I've been awfully fond of him—ever since I was a child."
"I know—I know. I can see what you like in him. He is a man by himself, he has something apart from the rest."
"Yes," said Ursula.
