'As far as I saw,' said Gudrun, 'it wasn't your fault at all.
If there was any FAULT, it was Mr Crich's.
But the whole thing is ENTIRELY trivial, and it really is ridiculous to take any notice of it.'
Gerald watched Gudrun closely, whilst she repulsed Hermione.
There was a body of cold power in her.
He watched her with an insight that amounted to clairvoyance.
He saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit, that could stand undiminished and unabated.
It was so finished, and of such perfect gesture, moreover.
'I'm awfully glad if it doesn't matter,' he said; 'if there's no real harm done.'
She looked back at him, with her fine blue eyes, and signalled full into his spirit, as she said, her voice ringing with intimacy almost caressive now it was addressed to him:
'Of course, it doesn't matter in the LEAST.'
The bond was established between them, in that look, in her tone.
In her tone, she made the understanding clear—they were of the same kind, he and she, a sort of diabolic freemasonry subsisted between them.
Henceforward, she knew, she had her power over him.
Wherever they met, they would be secretly associated.
And he would be helpless in the association with her.
Her soul exulted.
'Good-bye!
I'm so glad you forgive me.
Gooood-bye!'
Hermione sang her farewell, and waved her hand.
Gerald automatically took the oar and pushed off.
But he was looking all the time, with a glimmering, subtly-smiling admiration in his eyes, at Gudrun, who stood on the shoal shaking the wet book in her hand.
She turned away and ignored the receding boat.
But Gerald looked back as he rowed, beholding her, forgetting what he was doing.
'Aren't we going too much to the left?' sang Hermione, as she sat ignored under her coloured parasol.
Gerald looked round without replying, the oars balanced and glancing in the sun.
'I think it's all right,' he said good-humouredly, beginning to row again without thinking of what he was doing.
And Hermione disliked him extremely for his good-humoured obliviousness, she was nullified, she could not regain ascendancy.
Chapter 11 An Island
Meanwhile Ursula had wandered on from Willey Water along the course of the bright little stream.
The afternoon was full of larks' singing.
On the bright hill-sides was a subdued smoulder of gorse.
A few forget-me-nots flowered by the water.
There was a rousedness and a glancing everywhere.
She strayed absorbedly on, over the brooks.
She wanted to go to the mill-pond above.
The big mill-house was deserted, save for a labourer and his wife who lived in the kitchen.
So she passed through the empty farm-yard and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the bank by the sluice.
When she got to the top, to see the old, velvety surface of the pond before her, she noticed a man on the bank, tinkering with a punt.
It was Birkin sawing and hammering away.
She stood at the head of the sluice, looking at him.
He was unaware of anybody's presence.
He looked very busy, like a wild animal, active and intent.
She felt she ought to go away, he would not want her.
He seemed to be so much occupied.
But she did not want to go away.
Therefore she moved along the bank till he would look up.
Which he soon did.
The moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and came forward, saying: