Hermione roused herself as from a death--annihilation.

'He is such a DREADFUL satanist, isn't he?' she drawled to Ursula, in a
queer resonant voice, that ended on a shrill little laugh of pure
ridicule. The two women were jeering at him, jeering him into
nothingness. The laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded from
Hermione, jeering him as if he were a neuter.

'No,' he said. 'You are the real devil who won't let life exist.'

She looked at him with a long, slow look, malevolent, supercilious.

'You know all about it, don't you?' she said, with slow, cold, cunning
mockery.

'Enough,' he replied, his face fixing fine and clear like steel. A
horrible despair, and at the same time a sense of release, liberation,
came over Hermione. She turned with a pleasant intimacy to Ursula.

'You are sure you will come to Breadalby?' she said, urging.

'Yes, I should like to very much,' replied Ursula.

Hermione looked down at her, gratified, reflecting, and strangely
absent, as if possessed, as if not quite there.

'I'm so glad,' she said, pulling herself together. 'Some time in about
a fortnight. Yes? I will write to you here, at the school, shall I?
Yes. And you'll be sure to come? Yes. I shall be so glad. Good-bye!
Good-bye!'