'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.