There was a moment's lull, as everybody looked at the BORS D'OEUVRES
that were being handed round. And out of this lull, a girl of thirteen
or fourteen, with her long hair down her back, said in a calm,
self-possessed voice: 'Gerald, you forget father, when you make that unearthly noise.' 'Do I?' he answered. And then, to the company, 'Father is lying down,
he is not quite well.' 'How is he, really?' called one of the married daughters, peeping round
the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table
shedding its artificial flowers.
'He has no pain, but he feels tired,' replied Winifred, the girl with
the hair down her back.
The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. At the far
end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She had
Birkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of
faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would say
in a low voice to Birkin: 'Who is that young man?' 'I don't know,' Birkin answered discreetly.
'Have I seen him before?' she asked.
'I don't think so. I haven't,' he replied. And she was satisfied. Her
eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like a
queen in repose. Then she started, a little social smile came on her
face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she
bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then
immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle look was on her face,
she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay,
hating them all.
'Mother,' called Diana, a handsome girl a little older than Winifred,
'I may have wine, mayn't I?' 'Yes, you may have wine,' replied the mother automatically, for she was
perfectly indifferent to the question.
And Diana beckoned to the footman to fill her glass.
'Gerald shouldn't forbid me,' she said calmly, to the company at large.
'All right, Di,' said her brother amiably. And she glanced challenge at
him as she drank from her glass.
There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy, in the
house. It was rather a resistance to authority, than liberty. Gerald
had some command, by mere force of personality, not because of any
granted position. There was a quality in his voice, amiable but
dominant, that cowed the others, who were all younger than he.
Hermione was having a discussion with the bridegroom about nationality.
'No,' she said, 'I think that the appeal to patriotism is a mistake. It
is like one house of business rivalling another house of business.' 'Well you can hardly say that, can you?' exclaimed Gerald, who had a
real PASSION for discussion. 'You couldn't call a race a business
concern, could you?--and nationality roughly corresponds to race, I
think. I think it is MEANT to.' There was a moment's pause. Gerald and Hermione were always strangely
but politely and evenly inimical.