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