‘All right,’ he said, looking up with sudden exasperation. ‘Now go away then, and leave me alone. I don’t want any more of your meretricious persiflage.’
‘Is it really persiflage?’ she mocked, her face really relaxing into laughter. She interpreted it, that he had made a deep confession of love to her. But he was so absurd in his words, also.
They were silent for many minutes, she was pleased and elated like a child. His concentration broke, he began to look at her simply and naturally.
‘What I want is a strange conjunction with you—’ he said quietly; ‘not meeting and mingling—you are quite right—but an equilibrium, a pure balance of two single beings—as the stars balance each other.’
She looked at him. He was very earnest, and earnestness was always rather ridiculous, commonplace, to her. It made her feel unfree and uncomfortable. Yet she liked him so much. But why drag in the stars.
‘Isn’t this rather sudden?’ she mocked.
He began to laugh.
‘Best to read the terms of the contract, before we sign,’ he said.
A young grey cat that had been sleeping on the sofa jumped down and stretched, rising on its long legs, and arching its slim back. Then it sat considering for a moment, erect and kingly. And then, like a dart, it had shot out of the room, through the open window-doors, and into the garden.
‘What’s he after?’ said Birkin, rising.
The young cat trotted lordly down the path, waving his tail. He was an ordinary tabby with white paws, a slender young gentleman. A crouching, fluffy, brownish-grey cat was stealing up the side of the fence. The Mino walked statelily up to her, with manly nonchalance. She crouched before him and pressed herself on the ground in humility, a fluffy soft outcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that were green and lovely as great jewels. He looked casually down on her. So she crept a few inches further, proceeding on her way to the back door, crouching in a wonderful, soft, self-obliterating manner, and moving like a shadow.
He, going statelily on his slim legs, walked after her, then suddenly, for pure excess, he gave her a light cuff with his paw on the side of her face. She ran off a few steps, like a blown leaf along the ground, then crouched unobtrusively, in submissive, wild patience. The Mino pretended to take no notice of her. He blinked his eyes superbly at the landscape. In a minute she drew herself together and moved softly, a fleecy brown-grey shadow, a few paces forward. She began to quicken her pace, in a moment she would be gone like a dream, when the young grey lord sprang before her, and gave her a light handsome cuff. She subsided at once, submissively.
‘She is a wild cat,’ said Birkin. ‘She has come in from the woods.’
The eyes of the stray cat flared round for a moment, like great green fires staring at Birkin. Then she had rushed in a soft swift rush, half way down the garden. There she paused to look round. The Mino turned his face in pure superiority to his master, and slowly closed his eyes, standing in statuesque young perfection. The wild cat’s round, green, wondering eyes were staring all the while like uncanny fires. Then again, like a shadow, she slid towards the kitchen.
In a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the Mino was upon her, and had boxed her twice, very definitely, with a white, delicate fist. She sank and slid back, unquestioning. He walked after her, and cuffed her once or twice, leisurely, with sudden little blows of his magic white paws.
‘Now why does he do that?’ cried Ursula in indignation.
‘They are on intimate terms,’ said Birkin.
‘And is that why he hits her?’
‘Yes,’ laughed Birkin, ‘I think he wants to make it quite obvious to her.’
‘Isn’t it horrid of him!’ she cried; and going out into the garden she called to the Mino:
‘Stop it, don’t bully. Stop hitting her.’
The stray cat vanished like a swift, invisible shadow. The Mino glanced at Ursula, then looked from her disdainfully to his master.
‘Are you a bully, Mino?’ Birkin asked.
The young slim cat looked at him, and slowly narrowed its eyes. Then it glanced away at the landscape, looking into the distance as if completely oblivious of the two human beings.
‘Mino,’ said Ursula, ‘I don’t like you. You are a bully like all males.’
‘No,’ said Birkin, ‘he is justified. He is not a bully. He is only insisting to the poor stray that she shall acknowledge him as a sort of fate, her own fate: because you can see she is fluffy and promiscuous as the wind. I am with him entirely. He wants superfine stability.’
‘Yes, I know!’ cried Ursula. ‘He wants his own way—I know what your fine words work down to—bossiness, I call it, bossiness.’
The young cat again glanced at Birkin in disdain of the noisy woman.
‘I quite agree with you, Miciotto,’ said Birkin to the cat. ‘Keep your male dignity, and your higher understanding.’
Again the Mino narrowed his eyes as if he were looking at the sun. Then, suddenly affecting to have no connection at all with the two people, he went trotting off, with assumed spontaneity and gaiety, his tail erect, his white feet blithe.
‘Now he will find the belle sauvage once more, and entertain her with his superior wisdom,’ laughed Birkin.
Ursula looked at the man who stood in the garden with his hair blowing and his eyes smiling ironically, and she cried:
‘Oh it makes me so cross, this assumption of male superiority! And it is such a lie! One wouldn’t mind if there
