The tea was hot and aromatic, there were delicious little sandwiches of cucumber and of caviare, and winy cakes.
'Are you happy, Prune ?' cried Ursula in delight, looking at her sister.
'Ursula, I'm perfectly happy,' replied Gudrun gravely, looking at the westering sun.
'So am I.' When they were together, doing the things they enjoyed, the two sisters were quite complete in a perfect world of their own.

And this was one of the perfect moments of freedom and delight, such as children alone know, when all seems a perfect and blissful adventure.
When they had finished tea, the two girls sat on, silent and serene.
Then Ursula, who had a beautiful strong voice, began to sing to herself, softly: 'Annchen von Tharau.' Gudrun listened, as she sat beneath the trees, and the yearning came into her heart.

Ursula seemed so peaceful and sufficient unto herself, sitting there unconsciously crooning her song, strong and unquestioned at the centre of her own universe.

And Gudrun felt herself outside.

Always this desolating, agonised feeling, that she was outside of life, an onlooker, whilst Ursula was a partaker, caused Gudrun to suffer from a sense of her own negation, and made her, that she must always demand the other to be aware of her, to be in connection with her.
'Do you mind if I do Dalcroze to that tune, Hurtler ?' she asked in a curious muted tone, scarce moving her lips.
'What did you say ?' asked Ursula, looking up in peaceful surprise.
'Will you sing while I do Dalcroze ?' said Gudrun, suffering at having to repeat herself.
Ursula thought a moment, gathering her straying wits together.
'While you do-- ?' she asked vaguely.
'Dalcroze movements,' said Gudrun, suffering tortures of self-consciousness, even because of her sister.
'Oh Dalcroze! I couldn't catch the name.