Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind.
“It is just as well she doesn’t choose to believe it,” he said.
Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonic understanding.
“Just as well,” said Gudrun.
He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes.
“Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don’t you think?” he said.
She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself together, she replied:
“Oh—better dance than wail, certainly.”
“So I think.”
And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also—or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, this unacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then she shut it off completely, saying: