Mrs Crich sat perfectly impassive, as if she had not heard. Her bulk seemed hunched in the chair, her fair hair hung slack over her ears. But her skin was clear and fine, her hands, as she sat with them forgotten and folded, were quite beautiful, full of potential energy. A great mass of energy seemed decaying up in that silent, hulking form.
She looked up at her son, as he stood, keen and soldierly, near to her. Her eyes were most wonderfully blue, bluer than forget-me-nots. She seemed to have a certain confidence in Gerald, and to feel a certain motherly mistrust of him.
“How are you?” she muttered, in her strangely quiet voice, as if nobody should hear but him. “You’re not getting into a state, are you?
You’re not letting it make you hysterical?”
The curious challenge in the last words startled Gudrun.
“I don’t think so, mother,” he answered, rather coldly cheery.
“Somebody’s got to see it through, you know.”
“Have they? Have they?” answered his mother rapidly. “Why should you take it on yourself? What have you got to do, seeing it through. It will see itself through. You are not needed.”
“No, I don’t suppose I can do any good,” he answered. “It’s just how it affects us, you see.”
“You like to be affected—don’t you? It’s quite nuts for you? You would have to be important. You have no need to stop at home. Why don’t you go away!”