Again the confusion came over him, as if he were losing himself and becoming all vague, undefined, inchoate. Yet he wanted to be hard, manly, horsey. And he followed her. There was a light tea, and the guests scattered. The real feast was for the evening. Ursula walked out with Skrebensky through the stackyard to the fields, and up the embankment to the canal-side. The new corn-stacks were big and golden as they went by, an army of white geese marched aside in braggart protest. Ursula was light as a white ball of down. Skrebensky drifted beside her, indefinite, his old form loosened, and another self, grey, vague, drifting out as from a bud. They talked lightly, of nothing. The blue way of the canal wound softly between the autumn hedges, on towards the greenness of a small hill. On the left was the whole black agitation of colliery and railway and the town which rose on its hill, the church tower topping all. The round white dot of the clock on the tower was distinct in the evening light. That way, Ursula felt, was the way to London, through the grim, alluring seethe of the town. On the other hand was the evening, mellow over the green water-meadows and the winding alder trees beside the river, and the pale stretches of stubble beyond. There the evening glowed softly, and even a pee-wit was flapping in solitude and peace. Ursula and Anton Skrebensky walked along the ridge of the canal between. The berries on the hedges were crimson and bright red, above the leaves. The glow of evening and the wheeling of the solitary pee-wit and the faint cry of the birds came to meet the shuffling noise of the pits, the dark, fuming stress of the town opposite, and they two walked the blue strip of water-way, the ribbon of sky between. He was looking, Ursula thought, very beautiful, because of a flush of sunburn on his hands and face. He was telling her how he had learned to shoe horses and select cattle fit for killing. “Do you like to be a soldier?” she asked. “I am not exactly a soldier,” he replied. “But you only do things for wars,” she said. “Yes.” “Would you like to go to war?” “I? Well, it would be exciting. If there were a war I would want to go.” A strange, distracted feeling came over her, a sense of potent unrealities. “Why would you want to go?” “I should be doing something, it would be genuine. It’s a sort of toy-life as it is.” “But what would you be doing if you went to war?” “I would be making railways or bridges, working like a nigger.” “But you’d only make them to be pulled down again when the armies had done with them. It seems just as much a game.” “If you call war a game.” “What is it?” “It’s about the most serious business there is, fighting.” A sense of hard separateness came over her. “Why is fighting more serious than anything else?” she asked. “You either kill or get killed—and I suppose it is serious enough, killing.” “But when you’re dead you don’t matter any more,” she said.