'Where's Birkin?' he said, his eyes twinkling. 'He might help me to get
it down.' 'But what about your hand? Isn't it hurt?' asked Gudrun, rather muted,
as if avoiding the intimacy. This was the first time the hurt had been
mentioned. The curious way she skirted round the subject sent a new,
subtle caress through his veins. He took his hand out of his pocket. It
was bandaged. He looked at it, then put it in his pocket again. Gudrun
quivered at the sight of the wrapped up paw.
'Oh I can manage with one hand. The canoe is as light as a feather,' he
said. 'There's Rupert!--Rupert!' Birkin turned from his social duties and came towards them.
'What have you done to it?' asked Ursula, who had been aching to put
the question for the last half hour.
'To my hand?' said Gerald. 'I trapped it in some machinery.' 'Ugh!' said Ursula. 'And did it hurt much?' 'Yes,' he said. 'It did at the time. It's getting better now. It
crushed the fingers.' 'Oh,' cried Ursula, as if in pain, 'I hate people who hurt themselves.
I can FEEL it.' And she shook her hand.
'What do you want?' said Birkin.
The two men carried down the slim brown boat, and set it on the water.
'You're quite sure you'll be safe in it?' Gerald asked.
'Quite sure,' said Gudrun. 'I wouldn't be so mean as to take it, if
there was the slightest doubt. But I've had a canoe at Arundel, and I
assure you I'm perfectly safe.' So saying, having given her word like a man, she and Ursula entered the
frail craft, and pushed gently off. The two men stood watching them.
Gudrun was paddling. She knew the men were watching her, and it made
her slow and rather clumsy. The colour flew in her face like a flag.
'Thanks awfully,' she called back to him, from the water, as the boat
slid away. 'It's lovely--like sitting in a leaf.' He laughed at the fancy. Her voice was shrill and strange, calling from
the distance. He watched her as she paddled away. There was something
childlike about her, trustful and deferential, like a child. He watched
her all the while, as she rowed. And to Gudrun it was a real delight,
in make-belief, to be the childlike, clinging woman to the man who
stood there on the quay, so good-looking and efficient in his white
clothes, and moreover the most important man she knew at the moment.
She did not take any notice of the wavering, indistinct, lambent
Birkin, who stood at his side. One figure at a time occupied the field
of her attention.