It had a piano, sofas and chairs, and a couple of tables with books and magazines.
In its complete absence of decoration, save for the big, blue stove, it was cosy and pleasant.
Herr Loerke was the little man with the boyish figure, and the round, full, sensitive-looking head, and the quick, full eyes, like a mouse's.
He glanced swiftly from one to the other of the strangers, and held himself aloof.
'Please go on with the recitation,' said the Professor, suavely, with his slight authority.
Loerke, who was sitting hunched on the piano stool, blinked and did not answer.
'It would be a great pleasure,' said Ursula, who had been getting the sentence ready, in German, for some minutes.
Then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung aside, towards his previous audience and broke forth, exactly as he had broken off; in a controlled, mocking voice, giving an imitation of a quarrel between an old Cologne woman and a railway guard.
His body was slight and unformed, like a boy's, but his voice was mature, sardonic, its movement had the flexibility of essential energy, and of a mocking penetrating understanding.
Gudrun could not understand a word of his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him.
He must be an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjustment and singleness.
The Germans were doubled up with laughter, hearing his strange droll words, his droll phrases of dialect.
And in the midst of their paroxysms, they glanced with deference at the four English strangers, the elect.
Gudrun and Ursula were forced to laugh.
The room rang with shouts of laughter.
The blue eyes of the Professor's daughters were swimming over with laughter-tears, their clear cheeks were flushed crimson with mirth, their father broke out in the most astonishing peals of hilarity, the students bowed their heads on their knees in excess of joy.
Ursula looked round amazed, the laughter was bubbling out of her involuntarily.
She looked at Gudrun.
Gudrun looked at her, and the two sisters burst out laughing, carried away.
Loerke glanced at them swiftly, with his full eyes.
Birkin was sniggering involuntarily.
Gerald Crich sat erect, with a glistening look of amusement on his face.
And the laughter crashed out again, in wild paroxysms, the Professor's daughters were reduced to shaking helplessness, the veins of the Professor's neck were swollen, his face was purple, he was strangled in ultimate, silent spasms of laughter.
The students were shouting half-articulated words that tailed off in helpless explosions.
Then suddenly the rapid patter of the artist ceased, there were little whoops of subsiding mirth, Ursula and Gudrun were wiping their eyes, and the Professor was crying loudly.
'Das war ausgezeichnet, das war famos—'
'Wirklich famos,' echoed his exhausted daughters, faintly.
'And we couldn't understand it,' cried Ursula.
'Oh leider, leider!' cried the Professor.
'You couldn't understand it?' cried the Students, let loose at last in speech with the newcomers. 'Ja, das ist wirklich schade, das ist schade, gnadige Frau.
Wissen Sie—'
The mixture was made, the newcomers were stirred into the party, like new ingredients, the whole room was alive.
Gerald was in his element, he talked freely and excitedly, his face glistened with a strange amusement.
Perhaps even Birkin, in the end, would break forth.
He was shy and withheld, though full of attention.
Ursula was prevailed upon to sing
'Annie Lowrie,' as the Professor called it.
There was a hush of EXTREME deference.
She had never been so flattered in her life.
Gudrun accompanied her on the piano, playing from memory.
Ursula had a beautiful ringing voice, but usually no confidence, she spoiled everything.
This evening she felt conceited and untrammelled.
Birkin was well in the background, she shone almost in reaction, the Germans made her feel fine and infallible, she was liberated into overweening self-confidence.
She felt like a bird flying in the air, as her voice soared out, enjoying herself extremely in the balance and flight of the song, like the motion of a bird's wings that is up in the wind, sliding and playing on the air, she played with sentimentality, supported by rapturous attention.
She was very happy, singing that song by herself, full of a conceit of emotion and power, working upon all those people, and upon herself, exerting herself with gratification, giving immeasurable gratification to the Germans.
At the end, the Germans were all touched with admiring, delicious melancholy, they praised her in soft, reverent voices, they could not say too much.
'Wie schon, wie ruhrend!
Ach, die Schottischen Lieder, sie haben so viel Stimmung!
Aber die gnadige Frau hat eine WUNDERBARE Stimme; die gnadige Frau ist wirklich eine Kunstlerin, aber wirklich!'
She was dilated and brilliant, like a flower in the morning sun.