Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry on Winifred's education. But he did not live in the house, he was connected with the Grammar School.
One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin to town, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:
`Do you think my father's going to die, Miss Brangwen?'
Gudrun started.
`I don't know,' she replied.
`Don't you truly?'
`Nobody knows for certain. He may die, of course.'
The child pondered a few moments, then she asked:
`But do you think he will die?'
It was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical.
`Do I think he will die?' repeated Gudrun. `Yes, I do.'
But Winifred's large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move.
`He is very ill,' said Gudrun.
A small smile came over Winifred's face, subtle and sceptical.
`I don't believe he will,' the child asserted, mockingly, and she moved away into the drive. Gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heart stood still. Winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if nothing had been said.
`I've made a proper dam,' she said, out of the moist distance.
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.'