“In what way?” asked Gudrun, with cool irony.
“Can’t we save the drawings?”
There was a moment’s pause, wherein Gudrun made evident all her refutation of Hermione’s persistence.
“I assure you,” said Gudrun, with cutting distinctness, “the drawings are quite as good as ever they were, for my purpose. I want them only for reference.”
“But can’t I give you a new book? I wish you’d let me do that. I feel so truly sorry. I feel it was all my fault.”
“As far as I saw,” said Gudrun, “it wasn’t your fault at all. If there was any fault, it was Mr Crich’s. But the whole thing is entirely trivial, and it really is ridiculous to take any notice of it.”
Gerald watched Gudrun closely, whilst she repulsed Hermione. There was a body of cold power in her. He watched her with an insight that amounted to clairvoyance. He saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit, that could stand undiminished and unabated. It was so finished, and of such perfect gesture, moreover.
“I’m awfully glad if it doesn’t matter,” he said; “if there’s no real harm done.”
She looked back at him, with her fine blue eyes, and signalled full into his spirit, as she said, her voice ringing with intimacy almost caressive now it was addressed to him:
“Of course, it doesn’t matter in the least.”