Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind.
'It is just as well she doesn't choose to believe it,' he said.
Gudrun looked at him.
Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonic understanding.
'Just as well,' said Gudrun.
He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes.
'Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don't you think?' he said.
She was rather taken aback.
But, gathering herself together, she replied:
'Oh—better dance than wail, certainly.'
'So I think.'
And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious.
A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun.
She felt strong.
She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them.
She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heart grew hot.
She knew she wanted this herself also—or something, something equivalent.
Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be.
And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself.
She wanted it with him, this unacknowledged frenzy.
For a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality.
Then she shut it off completely, saying:
'We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred—we can get in the care there.'
'So we can,' he answered, going with her.
They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred white puppies.
The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun.
She did not want to see them.
'Look!' she cried. 'Three new puppies!
Marshall says this one seems perfect.
Isn't it a sweetling?
But it isn't so nice as its mother.'
She turned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her.
'My dearest Lady Crich,' she said, 'you are beautiful as an angel on earth.
Angel—angel—don't you think she's good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun?
They will be in heaven, won't they—and ESPECIALLY my darling Lady Crich!
Mrs Marshall, I say!'
'Yes, Miss Winifred?' said the woman, appearing at the door.
'Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you?
Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred.'
'I'll tell him—but I'm afraid that's a gentleman puppy, Miss Winifred.'
'Oh NO!'
There was the sound of a car.
'There's Rupert!' cried the child, and she ran to the gate.
Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate.
'We're ready!' cried Winifred. 'I want to sit in front with you, Rupert.
May I?'
'I'm afraid you'll fidget about and fall out,' he said.
'No I won't.
I do want to sit in front next to you.
It makes my feet so lovely and warm, from the engines.'