“Isn’t it an amazing thing,” cried Gudrun, “how strong the temptation is, not to!” They both laughed, looking at each other. In their hearts they were frightened. There was a long pause, whilst Ursula stitched and Gudrun went on with her sketch. The sisters were women, Ursula twenty-six, and Gudrun twenty-five. But both had the remote, virgin look of modern girls, sisters of Artemis rather than of Hebe. Gudrun was very beautiful, passive, soft-skinned, soft-limbed. She wore a dress of dark-blue silky stuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the neck and sleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings. Her look of confidence and diffidence contrasted with Ursula’s sensitive expectancy. The provincial people, intimidated by Gudrun’s perfect _sang-froid_ and exclusive bareness of manner, said of her: “She is a smart woman.” She had just come back from London, where she had spent several years, working at an art-school, as a student, and living a studio life. “I was hoping now for a man to come along,” Gudrun said, suddenly catching her underlip between her teeth, and making a strange grimace, half sly smiling, half anguish. Ursula was afraid. “So you have come home, expecting him here?” she laughed. “Oh my dear,” cried Gudrun, strident, “I wouldn’t go out of my way to look for him. But if there did happen to come along a highly attractive individual of sufficient means—well—” she tailed off ironically. Then she looked searchingly at Ursula, as if to probe her. “Don’t you find yourself getting bored?” she asked of her sister. “Don’t you find, that things fail to materialize? _Nothing materializes!_ Everything withers in the bud.” “What withers in the bud?” asked Ursula. “Oh, everything—oneself—things in general.” There was a pause, whilst each sister vaguely considered her fate. “It does frighten one,” said Ursula, and again there was a pause. “But do you hope to get anywhere by just marrying?” “It seems to be the inevitable next step,” said Gudrun. Ursula pondered this, with a little bitterness. She was a class mistress herself, in Willey Green Grammar School, as she had been for some years. “I know,” she said, “it seems like that when one thinks in the abstract. But really imagine it: imagine any man one knows, imagine him coming home to one every evening, and saying ‘Hello,’ and giving one a kiss—” There was a blank pause. “Yes,” said Gudrun, in a narrowed voice. “It’s just impossible. The man makes it impossible.” “Of course there’s children—” said Ursula doubtfully. Gudrun’s face hardened. “Do you _really_ want children, Ursula?” she asked coldly. A dazzled, baffled look came on Ursula’s face. “One feels it is still beyond one,” she said. “_Do_ you feel like that?” asked Gudrun. “I get no feeling whatever from the thought of bearing children.” Gudrun looked at Ursula with a masklike, expressionless face. Ursula knitted her brows.