`That's what I ask myself,' he said; `why should you mind! But you seem to.' His brows were tense with violent irritation.

`I assure you I don't, I don't mind in the least. Go where you belong--it's what I want you to do.'

`Ah you fool!' he cried, `with your "go where you belong." It's finished between Hermione and me. She means much more to you, if it comes to that, than she does to me. For you can only revolt in pure reaction from her--and to be her opposite is to be her counterpart.'

`Ah, opposite!' cried Ursula. `I know your dodges. I am not taken in by your word-twisting. You belong to Hermione and her dead show. Well, if you do, you do. I don't blame you. But then you've nothing to do with me.

In his inflamed, overwrought exasperation, he stopped the car, and they sat there, in the middle of the country lane, to have it out. It was a crisis of war between them, so they did not see the ridiculousness of their situation.

`If you weren't a fool, if only you weren't a fool,' he cried in bitter despair, `you'd see that one could be decent, even when one has been wrong. I was wrong to go on all those years with Hermione -- it was a deathly process. But after all, one can have a little human decency. But no, you would tear my soul out with your jealousy at the very mention of Hermione's name.'

`I jealous! I -- jealous! You are mistaken if you think that. I'm not jealous in the least of Hermione, she is nothing to me, not that!' And Ursula snapped her fingers. `No, it's you who are a liar. It's you who must return, like a dog to his vomit. It is what Hermione stands for that I hate. I hate it. It is lies, it is false, it is death. But you want it, you can't help it, you can't help yourself. You belong to that old, deathly way of living -- then go back to it. But don't come to me, for I've nothing to do with it.'

And in the stress of her violent emotion, she got down from the car and went to the hedgerow, picking unconsciously some flesh-pink spindleberries, some of which were burst, showing their orange seeds.

`Ah, you are a fool,' he cried, bitterly, with some contempt.

`Yes, I am. I am a fool. And thank God for it. I'm too big a fool to swallow your cleverness. God be praised. You go to your women -- go to them -- they are your sort -- you've always had a string of them trailing after you -- and you always will. Go to your spiritual brides -- but don't come to me as well, because I'm not having any, thank you. You're not satisfied, are you? Your spiritual brides can't give you what you want, they aren't common and fleshy enough for you, aren't they? So you come to me, and keep them in the background! You will marry me for daily use. But you'll keep yourself well provided with spiritual brides in the background. I know your dirty little game.' Suddenly a flame ran over her, and she stamped her foot madly on the road, and he winced, afraid that she would strike him. `And I, I'm not spiritual enough, I'm not as spiritual as that Hermione --!' Her brows knitted, her eyes blazed like a tiger's. `Then go to her, that's all I say, go to her, go. Ha, she spiritual -- spiritual, she! A dirty materialist as she is. She spiritual? What does she care for, what is her spirituality? What is it?' Her fury seemed to blaze out and burn his face. He shrank a little. `I tell you it's dirt, dirt, and nothing but dirt. And it's dirt you want, you crave for it. Spiritual! Is that spiritual, her bullying, her conceit, her sordid materialism? She's a fishwife, a fishwife, she is such a materialist. And all so sordid. What does she work out to, in the end, with all her social passion, as you call it. Social passion -- what social passion has she? -- show it me! -- where is it? She wants petty, immediate power, she wants the illusion that she is a great woman, that is all. In her soul she's a devilish unbeliever, common as dirt. That's what she is at the bottom. And all the rest is pretence -- but you love it. You love the sham spirituality, it's your food. And why? Because of the dirt underneath. Do you think I don't know the foulness of your sex life -- and her's? -- I do. And it's that foulness you want, you liar. Then have it, have it. You're such a liar.'