Women in Love

'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.