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There was no answer. Then he opened the door.
‘We’ve come back,’ said Hermione. ‘The daffodils are SO
beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen them.’
She looked at him with her long, slow, impassive look,
along her cheeks.
‘Have you?’ she echoed. And she remained looking at
him. She was stimulated above all things by this conflict
with him, when he was like a sulky boy, helpless, and she
had him safe at Breadalby. But underneath she knew the
split was coming, and her hatred of him was subconscious
and intense.
‘What were you doing?’ she reiterated, in her mild, in-
different tone. He did not answer, and she made her way,
almost unconsciously into his room. He had taken a Chi-
nese drawing of geese from the boudoir, and was copying it,
with much skill and vividness.
‘You are copying the drawing,’ she said, standing near
the table, and looking down at his work. ‘Yes. How beauti-
fully you do it! You like it very much, don’t you?’
‘It’s a marvellous drawing,’ he said.
‘Is it? I’m so glad you like it, because I’ve always been
fond of it. The Chinese Ambassador gave it me.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘But why do you copy it?’ she asked, casual and sing-
song. ‘Why not do something original?’
‘I want to know it,’ he replied. ‘One gets more of China,
copying this picture, than reading all the books.’
‘And what do you get?’

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