rough and lovely, for winter sport!’
Through Gudrun’s mind went the angry thought—’they know everything.’
‘Yes,’ she said aloud, ‘about forty kilometres from Innsbruck, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know exactly where—but it would be lovely, don’t you think, high in the perfect snow—?’
‘Very lovely!’ said Gudrun, sarcastically.
Ursula was put out.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I think Gerald spoke to Rupert so that it shouldn’t seem like an outing with a TYPE —’
‘I know, of course,’ said Gudrun, ‘that he quite commonly does take up with that sort.’
‘Does he!’ said Ursula. ‘Why how do you know?’
‘I know of a model in Chelsea,’ said Gudrun coldly. Now Ursula was silent. ‘Well,’ she said at last, with a doubtful laugh, ‘I hope he has a good time with her.’ At which Gudrun looked more glum.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR
Christmas drew near, all four prepared for flight. Birkin and Ursula were busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to be sent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose at last. Gudrun was very much excited. She loved to be on the wing.
She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and Paris to Innsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and Birkin. In London they stayed one night. They went to the music-hall, and afterwards to the Pompadour Cafe.
Gudrun hated the Cafe, yet she always went back to it, as did most of the artists of her acquaintance. She loathed its atmosphere of petty vice and petty jealousy and petty art. Yet she always called in again, when she was in town. It was as if she HAD to return to this small, slow, central whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution: just give it a look.
She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring with black, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. She would greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kind of sneering familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure to sit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them all objectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie of apish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew they were! Her blood beat black and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. Yet she must sit and watch, watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From every side of the Cafe, eyes turned half furtively, half jeeringly at her, men looking over their shoulders, women under their hats.
The old crowd was there, Carlyon in his corner with his pupils and his girl, Halliday and Libidnikov and the Pussum—they were all there. Gudrun watched Gerald. She watched his eyes linger a moment on Halliday, on Halliday’s party. These last were on the look-out—they nodded to him, he nodded again. They giggled and whispered among themselves. Gerald watched them with the steady twinkle in his eyes. They were urging the Pussum to something.
She at last rose. She was wearing a curious dress of dark silk splashed and spattered with different colours, a curious motley effect. She was thinner, her eyes were perhaps hotter, more disintegrated. Otherwise she was just the same. Gerald watched her with the same steady twinkle in his eyes as she came across. She held out her thin brown hand to him.
‘How are you?’ she said.
He shook hands with her, but remained seated, and let her stand near him, against the table. She nodded blackly to Gudrun, whom she did not know to speak to, but well enough by sight and reputation.
‘I am very well,’ said Gerald. ‘And you?’
‘Oh I’m all wight. What about Wupert?’
‘Rupert? He’s very well, too.’
‘Yes, I don’t mean that. What about him being married?’
‘Oh—yes, he is married.’
The Pussum’s eyes had a hot flash.
‘Oh, he’s weally bwought it off then, has he? When was he married?’
‘A week or two ago.’
‘Weally! He’s never written.’
‘No.’
‘No. Don’t you think it’s too bad?’
This last was in a tone of challenge. The Pussum let it be known by her tone, that she was aware of Gudrun’s listening.
‘I suppose he didn’t feel like it,’ replied Gerald.
‘But why didn’t he?’ pursued the Pussum.
This was received in silence. There was an ugly, mocking persistence in the small, beautiful figure of the short-haired girl, as she stood near Gerald.
‘Are you staying in town long?’ she asked.
‘Tonight only.’
‘Oh, only tonight. Are you coming over to speak to Julius?’
