“Really!” she said, with grave laughter in her voice.
And to Birkin it was as if she killed Gerald, with that touch.
“Ah but,” cried Gudrun, “let us drink to Britannia—let us drink to Britannia.”
It seemed there was wild despair in her voice. Gerald laughed, and filled the glasses.
“I think Rupert means,” he said, “that nationally all Englishmen must die, so that they can exist individually and—”
“Super-nationally—” put in Gudrun, with a slight ironic grimace, raising her glass.
The next day, they descended at the tiny railway station of Hohenhausen, at the end of the tiny valley railway. It was snow everywhere, a white, perfect cradle of snow, new and frozen, sweeping up on either side, black crags, and white sweeps of silver towards the blue pale heavens.
As they stepped out on the naked platform, with only snow around and above, Gudrun shrank as if it chilled her heart.
“My God, Jerry,” she said, turning to Gerald with sudden intimacy, “you’ve done it now.”
“What?”