One night Winifred came all burning into Ursula’s bed, and put her arms round the girl, holding her to herself in spite of unwillingness, and said,
“Dear, my dear—shall I marry Mr. Brangwen—shall I?”
The clinging, heavy, muddy question weighed on Ursula intolerably.
“Has he asked you?” she said, using all her might of hard resistance.
“He’s asked me,” said Winifred. “Do you want me to marry him, Ursula?”
“Yes,” said Ursula.
The arms tightened more on her.
“I knew you did, my sweet—and I will marry him. You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been awfully fond of him—ever since I was a child.”
“I know—I know. I can see what you like in him. He is a man by himself, he has something apart from the rest.”