tingling of delight。 But to her； the children were not a school
class this afternoon。 They were flowers； birds； little bright
animals； children； anything。 They only were not Standard Five。
She felt no responsibility for them。 It was for once a game；
this teaching。 And if they got their sums wrong； what matter？
And she would take a pleasant bit of reading。 And instead of
history with dates； she would tell a lovely tale。 And for
grammar； they could have a bit of written analysis that was not
difficult； because they had done it before：
〃She shall be sportive as a fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs。〃
She wrote that from memory； because it pleased her。
So the golden afternoon passed away and she went home happy。
She had finished her day of school； and was free to plunge into
the glowing evening of Cossethay。 And she loved walking home。
But it had not been school。 It had been playing at school
beneath red hawthorn blossom。
She could not go on like this。 The quarterly examination was
ing； and her class was not ready。 It irritated her that she
must drag herself away from her happy self； and exert herself
with all her strength to force； to pel this heavy class of
children to work hard at arithmetic。 They did not want to work；
she did not want to pel them。 And yet； some second conscience
gnawed at her； telling her the work was not properly done。 It
irritated her almost to madness； and she let loose all the
irritation in the class。 Then followed a day of battle and hate
and violence； when she went home raw； feeling the golden evening
taken away from her； herself incarcerated in some dark； heavy
place； and chained there with a consciousness of having done
badly at work。
What good was it that it was summer； that right till evening；
when the corncrakes called； the larks would mount up into the
light； to sing once more before nightfall。 What good was it all；
when she was out of tune； when she must only remember the burden
and shame of school that day。
And still； she hated school。 Still she cried； she did not
believe in it。 Why should the children learn； and why should she
teach them？ It was all so much milling the wind。 What folly was
it that made life into this； the fulfilling of some stupid；
factitious duty？ It was all so made up； so unnatural。 The
school； the sums； the grammar； the quarterly examinations； the
registersit was all a barren nothing！
Why should she give her allegiance to this world； and let it
so dominate her； that her own world of warm sun and growing；
sapfilled life was turned into nothing？ She was not going to do
it。 She was not going to be a prisoner in the dry； tyrannical
manworld。 She was not going to care about it。 What did it
matter if her class did ever so badly in the quarterly
examination。 Let itwhat did it matter？
Nevertheless； when the time came； and the report on her class
was bad； she was miserable； and the joy of the summer was taken
away from her； she was shut up in gloom。 She could not really
escape from this world of system and work； out into her fields
where she was happy。 She must have her place in the working
world； be a recognized member with full rights there。 It was
more important to her than fields and sun and poetry； at this
time。 But she was only the more its enemy。
It was a very difficult thing； she thought； during the long
hours of intermission in the summer holidays； to be herself； her
happy self that enjoyed so much to lie in the sun； to play and
swim and be content； and also to be a schoolteacher getting
results out of a class of children。 She dreamed fondly of the
time when she need not be a teacher any more。 But vaguely； she
knew that responsibility had taken place in her for ever； and as
yet her prime business was to work。
The autumn passed away； the winter was at hand。 Ursula became
more and more an inhabitant of the world of work； and of what is
called life。 She could not see her future； but a little way off；
was college； and to the thought of this she clung fixedly。 She
would go to college； and get her two or three years' training；
free of cost。 Already she had applied and had her place
appointed for the ing year。
So she continued to study for her degree。 She would take
French； Latin； English； mathematics and botany。 She went to
classes in Ilkeston； she studied at evening。 For there was this
world to conquer； this knowledge to acquire； this qualification
to attain。 And she worked with intensity； because of a want
inside her that drove her on。 Almost everything was subordinated
now to this one desire to take her place in the world。 What kind
of place it was to be she did not ask herself。 The blind desire
drove her on。 She must take her place。
She knew she would never be much of a success as an
elementary school teacher。 But neither had she failed。 She hated
it； but she had managed it。
Maggie had left St。 Philip's School； and had found a more
congenial post。 The two girls remained friends。 They met at
evening classes； they studied and somehow encouraged a firm hope
each in the other。 They did not know whither they were making；
nor what they ultimately wanted。 But they knew they wanted now
to learn； to know and to do。
They talked of love and marriage； and the position of woman
in marriage。 Maggie said that love was the flower of life； and
blossomed unexpectedly and without law； and must be plucked
where it was found； and enjoyed for the brief hour of its
duration。
To Ursula this was unsatisfactory。 She thought she still
loved Anton Skrebensky。 But she did not five him that he had
not been strong enough to acknowledge her。 He had denied her。
How then could she love him？ How then was love so absolute？ She
did not believe it。 She believed that love was a way； a means；
not an end in itself； as Maggie seemed to think。 And always the
way of love would be found。 But whither did it lead？
〃I believe there are many men in the world one might
lovethere is not only one man；〃 said Ursula。
She was thinking of Skrebensky。 Her heart was hollow with the
knowledge of Winifred Inger。
〃But you must distinguish between love and passion；〃 said
Maggie； adding； with a touch of contempt： 〃Men will easily have
a passion for you； but they won't love you。〃
〃Yes；〃 said Ursula； vehemently； the look of suffering； almost
of fanaticism； on her face。 〃Passion is only part of love。 And
it seems so much because it can't last。 That is why passion is
never happy。〃
She was staunch for joy； for happiness； and permanency； in
contrast with Maggie； who was for sadness； and the inevitable
passingaway of things。 Ursula suffered bitterly at the hands of
life； Maggie was always single； always withheld； so she went in
a heavy brooding sadness that was almost meat to her。 In
Ursula's last winter at St。 Philip's the friendship of the two
girls came to a climax。 It was during this winter that Ursula
suffered and enjoyed most keenly Maggie's fundamental sadness of
enclosedness。 Maggie enjoyed and suffered Ursula's struggles
against the confines of her life。 And then the two girls began
to drift apart； as Ursula broke from that form of life wherein
Maggie must remain enclosed。
CHAPTER XIV
THE WIDENING CIRCLE
Maggie's people； the Schofields； lived in the large
gardener's cottage； that was half a farm； behind Belcote Hall。
The hall was too damp to live in； so the Schofields were
caretakers； gamekeepers； farmers； all in one。 The father was
gamekeeper and stockbreeder； the eldest son was
marketgardener； using the big hall gardens； the second son was
farmer and gardener。 There was a large family； as at
Cossethay。
Ursula loved to stay at Belcote； to be treated as a grand
lady by Maggie's brothers。 They were goodlooking men。 The
eldest was twentysix years old。 He was the gardener； a man not
very tall； but strong and well made； with brown； sunny； easy
eyes and a face handsomely hewn； brown； with a long fair
moustache which he pulled as he talked to Ursula。
The girl was excited because these men attended to her when
she came near。 She could make their eyes light up and quiver；
she could make Anthony； the eldest； twist and twist his
moustache。 She knew she could move them almost at will with her
light laughter and chatter。 They loved her ideas； watched her as
she talked vehemently about politics or economics。 And she；
while she talked； saw the goldenbrown eyes of Anthony gleam
like the eyes of a satyr as they watched her。 He did not listen
to her words； he listened to her。 It excited her。
He was like a faun pleased when she would go with him over
his hothouses； to look at the green and pretty plants； at the
pink primulas nodding among their leaves； and cinarrias
flaunting purple and crimson and white。 She asked about
everything； and he told her very exactly and minutely； in a
queer pedantic way that made her want to laugh。 Yet she was
really interested in what he did。 And he had the curious light
in his face； like the light in the eyes of the goat that was
tethered by the farmyard gate。
She went down with him into the warmish cellar； where already
in the darkness the little yellow knobs of rhubarb were ing。
He held the lantern down to the dark earth。 She saw the tiny
knobend of the rhubarb thrusting upwards upon the thick red
stem； thrusting itself like a knob of flame through the soft
soil。 His face was turned up to her； the light glittered on his
eyes and his teeth as he laughed； with a faint； musical neigh。
He looked handsome。 And she heard a new sound in her ears； the
faintlymusical； neighing laugh of Anthony； whose moustache
twisted up； and whose eyes were luminous with a cold； steady；
arrogantlaughing glare。 There seemed a little prance of triumph
in his movement； she could not rid herself of a movement of
acquiescence； a touch of acceptance。 Yet he was so humble； his
voice was so caressing。 He held his hand for her to step on when
she must climb a wall。 And she stepped on the living firmness of
him； that quivered firmly under her weight。
She was aware of him as if in a mesmeric state。 In her
ordinary sense； she had nothing to do with him。 But the peculiar
ease and unnoticeableness of his