The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun he was grey with near death. Yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest he should have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of his time dazed and half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of the past, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But there were times even to the end when he was capable of realising what was happening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And these were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For to realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to be borne. It was an admission never to be made.
Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.
“Well,” he said in his weakened voice, “and how are you and Winifred getting on?”
“Oh, very well indeed,” replied Gudrun.
There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man’s dying.
“The studio answers all right?” he said.
“Splendid. It couldn’t be more beautiful and perfect,” said Gudrun.
She waited for what he would say next.
“And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?”
It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.