I like that fur cap IMMENSELY!'
She glanced over Ursula, who wore a big soft coat with a collar of deep, soft, blond fur, and a soft blond cap of fur.
'And you!' cried Ursula. 'What do you think YOU look like!'
Gudrun assumed an unconcerned, expressionless face.
'Do you like it?' she said.
'It's VERY fine!' cried Ursula, perhaps with a touch of satire.
'Go up—or come down,' said Birkin. For there the sisters stood, Gudrun with her hand on Ursula's arm, on the turn of the stairs half way to the first landing, blocking the way and affording full entertainment to the whole of the hall below, from the door porter to the plump Jew in black clothes.
The two young women slowly mounted, followed by Birkin and the waiter.
'First floor?' asked Gudrun, looking back over her shoulder.
'Second Madam—the lift!' the waiter replied.
And he darted to the elevator to forestall the two women.
But they ignored him, as, chattering without heed, they set to mount the second flight.
Rather chagrined, the waiter followed.
It was curious, the delight of the sisters in each other, at this meeting.
It was as if they met in exile, and united their solitary forces against all the world.
Birkin looked on with some mistrust and wonder.
When they had bathed and changed, Gerald came in.
He looked shining like the sun on frost.
'Go with Gerald and smoke,' said Ursula to Birkin. 'Gudrun and I want to talk.'
Then the sisters sat in Gudrun's bedroom, and talked clothes, and experiences.
Gudrun told Ursula the experience of the Birkin letter in the cafe.
Ursula was shocked and frightened.
'Where is the letter?' she asked.
'I kept it,' said Gudrun.
'You'll give it me, won't you?' she said.
But Gudrun was silent for some moments, before she replied:
'Do you really want it, Ursula?'
'I want to read it,' said Ursula.
'Certainly,' said Gudrun.
Even now, she could not admit, to Ursula, that she wanted to keep it, as a memento, or a symbol.
But Ursula knew, and was not pleased.
So the subject was switched off.
'What did you do in Paris?' asked Ursula.
'Oh,' said Gudrun laconically—'the usual things.
We had a FINE party one night in Fanny Bath's studio.'
'Did you?
And you and Gerald were there!
Who else?
Tell me about it.'
'Well,' said Gudrun. 'There's nothing particular to tell.
You know Fanny is FRIGHTFULLY in love with that painter, Billy Macfarlane.
He was there—so Fanny spared nothing, she spent VERY freely.
It was really remarkable!
Of course, everybody got fearfully drunk—but in an interesting way, not like that filthy London crowd.
The fact is these were all people that matter, which makes all the difference.
There was a Roumanian, a fine chap.
He got completely drunk, and climbed to the top of a high studio ladder, and gave the most marvellous address—really, Ursula, it was wonderful!
He began in French—La vie, c'est une affaire d'ames imperiales—in a most beautiful voice—he was a fine-looking chap—but he had got into Roumanian before he had finished, and not a soul understood.
But Donald Gilchrist was worked to a frenzy.
He dashed his glass to the ground, and declared, by God, he was glad he had been born, by God, it was a miracle to be alive.