'But there is no need for such hurry,' he said.
'Yes,' she answered. 'I will go.'
And turning to Hermione, before there was time to say any more, she held out her hand and said
'Good-bye.'
'Good-bye—' sang Hermione, detaining the band. 'Must you really go now?'
'Yes, I think I'll go,' said Ursula, her face set, and averted from Hermione's eyes.
'You think you will—'
But Ursula had got her hand free.
She turned to Birkin with a quick, almost jeering: 'Good-bye,' and she was opening the door before he had time to do it for her.
When she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury and agitation.
It was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence Hermione roused in her, by her very presence.
Ursula knew she gave herself away to the other woman, she knew she looked ill-bred, uncouth, exaggerated.
But she did not care.
She only ran up the road, lest she should go back and jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind.
For they outraged her.
Chapter 23 Excurse
Next day Birkin sought Ursula out.
It happened to be the half-day at the Grammar School.
He appeared towards the end of the morning, and asked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon.
She consented.
But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.
The afternoon was fine and dim.
He was driving the motor-car, and she sat beside him.
But still her face was closed against him, unresponding.
When she became like this, like a wall against him, his heart contracted.
His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more.
At moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula or Hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist.
Why bother!
Why strive for a coherent, satisfied life?
Why not drift on in a series of accidents-like a picaresque novel?
Why not?
Why bother about human relationships?
Why take them seriously-male or female?
Why form any serious connections at all?
Why not be casual, drifting along, taking all for what it was worth?
And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious living.
'Look,' he said, 'what I bought.'
The car was running along a broad white road, between autumn trees.
He gave her a little bit of screwed-up paper.
She took it and opened it.
'How lovely,' she cried.
She examined the gift.
'How perfectly lovely!' she cried again. 'But why do you give them me?'
She put the question offensively.
His face flickered with bored irritation.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly.
'I wanted to,' he said, coolly.
'But why?
Why should you?'
'Am I called on to find reasons?' he asked.