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They came at last to Basle, to the hotel. It was all a drifting trance, from which she never came to. They went out in the morning, before the train departed. She saw the street, the river, she stood on the bridge. But it all meant nothing. She remembered some shops—one full of pictures, one with orange velvet and ermine. But what did these signify?—nothing.

She was not at ease till they were in the train again. Then she was relieved. So long as they were moving onwards, she was satisfied. They came to Zurich, then, before very long, ran under the mountains, that were deep in snow. At last she was drawing near. This was the other world now.

Innsbruck was wonderful, deep in snow, and evening. They drove in an open sledge over the snow: the train had been so hot and stifling. And the hotel, with the golden light glowing under the porch, seemed like a home.

They laughed with pleasure when they were in the hall. The place seemed full and busy.

“Do you know if Mr. and Mrs. Crich—English—from Paris, have arrived?” Birkin asked in German.

The porter reflected a moment, and was just going to answer, when Ursula caught sight of Gudrun, sauntering down the stairs, wearing her dark glossy coat, with grey fur.

“Gudrun! Gudrun!” she called, waving up the well of the staircase. “Shu-hu!”

Gudrun looked over the rail, and immediately lost her sauntering, diffident air. Her eyes flashed.

“Really—Ursula!” she cried. And she began to move downstairs as Ursula ran up. They met at a turn and kissed with laughter and exclamations inarticulate and stirring.

“But!” cried Gudrun, mortified. “We thought it was to-morrow you were coming! I wanted to come to the station.”

“No, we’ve come to-day!” cried Ursula. “Isn’t it lovely here!”

“Adorable!” said Gudrun. “Gerald’s just gone out to get something. Ursula, aren’t you fearfully tired?”

“No, not so very. But I look a filthy sight, don’t I?”

“No, you don’t. You look almost perfectly fresh. I like that fur cap immensely!” She glanced over Ursula, who wore a big soft coat with a collar of deep, soft, blond fur, and a soft blond cap of fur.

“And you!” cried Ursula. “What do you think you look like!”

Gudrun assumed an unconcerned, expressionless face. “Do you like it?” she said.

“It’s very fine!” cried Ursula, perhaps with a touch of satire.

“Go up—or come down,” said Birkin. For there the sisters stood, Gudrun with her hand on Ursula’s arm, on the turn of the stairs half way to the first landing, blocking the way, and affording full entertainment to the whole of the hall below from the door porter to the plump Jew in black clothes.

The two young women slowly mounted, followed by Birkin and the waiter.

“First floor?” asked Gudrun, looking back over her shoulder.

“Second, Madam—the lift!” the porter replied. And he darted to the elevator to forestall the two women. But they ignored him, as, chattering without heed, they set to mount the second flight. Rather chagrined, the porter followed.

It was curious, the delight of the sisters in each other, at this meeting. It was as if they met in exile, and united their solitary forces against all the world. Birkin looked on with some mistrust and wonder.

When they had bathed and changed, Gerald came in. He looked shining like the sun on frost.

“Go with Gerald and smoke,” said Ursula to Birkin. “Gudrun and I want to talk.”

Then the sisters sat in Gudrun’s bedroom, and talked clothes, and experiences. Gudrun told Ursula the experience of the Birkin letter in the café. Ursula was shocked and frightened.

“Where is the letter?” she asked.

“I kept it,” said Gudrun.

“You’ll give it me, won’t you?” she said.

But Gudrun was silent for some moments, before she replied:

“Do you really want it, Ursula?”

“I want to read it,” said Ursula.

“Certainly,” said Gudrun.

Even now, she could not admit, to Ursula, that she wanted to keep it, as a memento, or a symbol. But Ursula knew, and was not pleased. So the subject was switched off.

“What did you do in Paris?” asked Ursula.

“Oh,” said Gudrun laconically