, exactly,« replied the sculptor. »What one does in one's
art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one's life, that is a
bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.«
    It was curious what a sense of elation and freedom Gudrun found in this
communication. She felt established for ever. Of course Gerald was bagatelle.
Love was one of the temporal things in her life, except in so far as she was an
artist. She thought of Cleopatra - Cleopatra must have been an artist; she
reaped the essential from a man, she harvested the ultimate sensation, and threw
away the husk; and Mary Stuart, and the great Rachel, panting with her lovers
after the theatre, these were the exoteric exponents of love. After all, what
was the lover but fuel for the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female
art, the art of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding.
    One evening Gerald was arguing with Loerke about Italy and Tripoli. The
Englishman was in a strange, inflammable state, the German was excited. It was a
contest of words, but it meant a conflict of spirit between the two men. And all
the while Gudrun could see in Gerald an arrogant English contempt for a
foreigner. Although Gerald was quivering, his eyes flashing, his face flushed,
in his argument there was a brusqueness, a savage contempt in his manner, that
made Gudrun's blood flare up, and made Loerke keen and mortified. For Gerald
came down like a sledge-hammer with his assertions, anything the little German
said was merely contemptible rubbish.
    At last Loerke turned to Gudrun, raising his hands in helpless irony, a
shrug of ironical dismissal, something appealing and child-like.
    »Sehen sie, gnädige Frau -« he began.
    »Bitte sagen Sie nicht immer, gnädige Frau,« cried Gudrun, her eyes
flashing, her cheeks burning. She looked like a vivid Medusa. Her voice was loud
and clamorous, the other people in the room were startled.
    »Please don't call me Mrs. Crich,« she cried aloud.
    The name, in Loerke's mouth particularly, had been an intolerable
humiliation and constraint upon her these many days.
    The two men looked at her in amazement. Gerald went white at the
cheek-bones.
    »What shall I say, then?« asked Loerke, with soft, mocking insinuation.
    »Sagen Sie nur nicht das,« she muttered, her cheeks flushed crimson. »Not
that, at least.«
