Women in Love

'No,' said Birkin. 'It was full moon two days ago.' 'Oh! You believe in the moon then, affecting the weather?' 'No, I don't think I do. I don't really know enough about it.' 'You know what they say? The moon and the weather may change together,

but the change of the moon won't change the weather.' 'Is that it?' said Birkin. 'I hadn't heard it.' There was a pause. Then Birkin said: 'Am I hindering you? I called to see Ursula, really. Is she at home?' 'I don't believe she is. I believe she's gone to the library. I'll just

see.' Birkin could hear him enquiring in the dining-room.

'No,' he said, coming back. 'But she won't be long. You wanted to speak

to her?' Birkin looked across at the other man with curious calm, clear eyes.

'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'I wanted to ask her to marry me.' A point of light came on the golden-brown eyes of the elder man.

'O-oh?' he said, looking at Birkin, then dropping his eyes before the

calm, steadily watching look of the other: 'Was she expecting you

then?' 'No,' said Birkin.

'No? I didn't know anything of this sort was on foot--' Brangwen smiled

awkwardly.

Birkin looked back at him, and said to himself: 'I wonder why it should

be "on foot"!' Aloud he said: 'No, it's perhaps rather sudden.' At which, thinking of his

relationship with Ursula, he added--'but I don't know--' 'Quite sudden, is it? Oh!' said Brangwen, rather baffled and annoyed.

'In one way,' replied Birkin, '--not in another.' There was a moment's pause, after which Brangwen said: 'Well, she pleases herself--' 'Oh yes!' said Birkin, calmly.

A vibration came into Brangwen's strong voice, as he replied: 'Though I shouldn't want her to be in too big a hurry, either. It's no

good looking round afterwards, when it's too late.' 'Oh, it need never be too late,' said Birkin, 'as far as that goes.' 'How do you mean?' asked the father.

'If one repents being married, the marriage is at an end,' said Birkin.

'You think so?' 'Yes.' 'Ay, well that may be your way of looking at it.' Birkin, in silence, thought to himself: 'So it may. As for YOUR way of

looking at it, William Brangwen, it needs a little explaining.' 'I suppose,' said Brangwen, 'you know what sort of people we are? What

sort of a bringing-up she's had?' '"She",' thought Birkin to himself, remembering his childhood's

corrections, 'is the cat's mother.' 'Do I know what sort of a bringing-up she's had?' he said aloud.