Women in Love

'Mother's PERFECTLY capable of getting through this little

celebration,' said Gudrun with some contempt.

But Ursula knew that her father felt uncouth and angry and unhappy, so

she was far from her ease. They waited outside the gate till their

parents came up. The tall, thin man in his crumpled clothes was

unnerved and irritable as a boy, finding himself on the brink of this

social function. He did not feel a gentleman, he did not feel anything

except pure exasperation.

Ursula took her place at his side, they gave their tickets to the

policeman, and passed in on to the grass, four abreast; the tall, hot,

ruddy-dark man with his narrow boyish brow drawn with irritation, the

fresh-faced, easy woman, perfectly collected though her hair was

slipping on one side, then Gudrun, her eyes round and dark and staring,

her full soft face impassive, almost sulky, so that she seemed to be

backing away in antagonism even whilst she was advancing; and then

Ursula, with the odd, brilliant, dazzled look on her face, that always

came when she was in some false situation.

Birkin was the good angel. He came smiling to them with his affected

social grace, that somehow was never QUITE right. But he took off his

hat and smiled at them with a real smile in his eyes, so that Brangwen

cried out heartily in relief: 'How do you do? You're better, are you?' 'Yes, I'm better. How do you do, Mrs Brangwen? I know Gudrun and Ursula

very well.' His eyes smiled full of natural warmth. He had a soft, flattering

manner with women, particularly with women who were not young.

'Yes,' said Mrs Brangwen, cool but yet gratified. 'I have heard them

speak of you often enough.' He laughed. Gudrun looked aside, feeling she was being belittled.

People were standing about in groups, some women were sitting in the

shade of the walnut tree, with cups of tea in their hands, a waiter in

evening dress was hurrying round, some girls were simpering with

parasols, some young men, who had just come in from rowing, were

sitting cross-legged on the grass, coatless, their shirt-sleeves rolled

up in manly fashion, their hands resting on their white flannel

trousers, their gaudy ties floating about, as they laughed and tried to

be witty with the young damsels.

'Why,' thought Gudrun churlishly, 'don't they have the manners to put

their coats on, and not to assume such intimacy in their appearance.' She abhorred the ordinary young man, with his hair plastered back, and

his easy-going chumminess.

Hermione Roddice came up, in a handsome gown of white lace, trailing an

enormous silk shawl blotched with great embroidered flowers, and

balancing an enormous plain hat on her head. She looked striking,

astonishing, almost macabre, so tall, with the fringe of her great

cream-coloured vividly-blotched shawl trailing on the ground after her,

her thick hair coming low over her eyes, her face strange and long and

pale, and the blotches of brilliant colour drawn round her.