'No--' drawled Hermione. And she stood and looked at them. The two
girls were embarrassed because she would not move into the house, but
must have her little scene of welcome there on the path. The servants
waited.
'Come in,' said Hermione at last, having fully taken in the pair of
them. Gudrun was the more beautiful and attractive, she had decided
again, Ursula was more physical, more womanly. She admired Gudrun's
dress more. It was of green poplin, with a loose coat above it, of
broad, dark-green and dark-brown stripes. The hat was of a pale,
greenish straw, the colour of new hay, and it had a plaited ribbon of
black and orange, the stockings were dark green, the shoes black. It
was a good get-up, at once fashionable and individual. Ursula, in dark
blue, was more ordinary, though she also looked well.
Hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with coral beads
and coral coloured stockings. But her dress was both shabby and soiled,
even rather dirty.
'You would like to see your rooms now, wouldn't you! Yes. We will go up
now, shall we?' Ursula was glad when she could be left alone in her room. Hermione
lingered so long, made such a stress on one. She stood so near to one,
pressing herself near upon one, in a way that was most embarrassing and
oppressive. She seemed to hinder one's workings.
Lunch was served on the lawn, under the great tree, whose thick,
blackish boughs came down close to the grass. There were present a
young Italian woman, slight and fashionable, a young, athletic-looking
Miss Bradley, a learned, dry Baronet of fifty, who was always making
witticisms and laughing at them heartily in a harsh, horse-laugh, there
was Rupert Birkin, and then a woman secretary, a Fraulein Marz, young
and slim and pretty.
The food was very good, that was one thing. Gudrun, critical of
everything, gave it her full approval. Ursula loved the situation, the
white table by the cedar tree, the scent of new sunshine, the little
vision of the leafy park, with far-off deer feeding peacefully. There
seemed a magic circle drawn about the place, shutting out the present,
enclosing the delightful, precious past, trees and deer and silence,
like a dream.
But in spirit she was unhappy. The talk went on like a rattle of small
artillery, always slightly sententious, with a sententiousness that was
only emphasised by the continual crackling of a witticism, the
continual spatter of verbal jest, designed to give a tone of flippancy
to a stream of conversation that was all critical and general, a canal
of conversation rather than a stream.