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At length they heard the gate. They saw her coming up the steps with a bundle of books under her arm. Her face was bright and abstracted as usual, with the abstraction, that look of being not quite there, not quite present to the facts of reality, that galled her father so much. She had a maddening faculty of assuming a light of her own, which excluded the reality, and within which she looked radiant as if in sunshine.

They heard her go into the dining room, and drop her armful of books on the table.

“Did you bring me that Girl’s Own?” cried Rosalind.

“Yes, I brought it. But I forgot which one it was you wanted.”

“You would,” cried Rosalind angrily. “It’s right for a wonder.”

Then they heard her say something in a lowered tone.

“Where?” cried Ursula.

Again her sister’s voice was muffled.

Brangwen opened the door, and called, in his strong, brazen voice:

“Ursula.”

She appeared in a moment, wearing her hat.

“Oh, how do you do!” she cried, seeing Birkin, and all dazzled as if taken by surprise. He wondered at her, knowing she was aware of his presence. She had her queer, radiant, breathless manner, as if confused by the actual world, unreal to it, having a complete bright world of her self alone.

“Have I interrupted a conversation?” she asked.

“No, only a complete silence,” said Birkin.

“Oh,” said Ursula, vaguely, absent. Their presence was not vital to her, she was withheld, she did not take them in. It was a subtle insult that never failed to exasperate her father.

“Mr. Birkin came to speak to you, not to me,” said her father.

“Oh, did he!” she exclaimed vaguely, as if it did not concern her. Then, recollecting herself, she turned to him rather radiantly, but still quite superficially, and said: “Was it anything special?”

“I hope so,” he said, ironically.

“—To propose to you, according to all accounts,” said her father.

“Oh,” said Ursula.

“Oh,” mocked her father, imitating her. “Have you nothing more to say?”

She winced as if violated.

“Did you really come to propose to me?” she asked of Birkin, as if it were a joke.

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I came to propose.” He seemed to fight shy of the last word.

“Did you?” she cried, with her vague radiance. He might have been saying anything whatsoever. She seemed pleased.

“Yes,” he answered. “I wanted to—I wanted you to agree to marry me.”

She looked at him. His eyes were flickering with mixed lights, wanting something of her, yet not wanting it. She shrank a little, as if she were exposed to his eyes, and as if it were a pain to her. She darkened, her soul clouded over, she turned aside. She had been driven out of her own radiant, single world. And she dreaded contact, it was almost unnatural to her at these times.

“Yes,” she said vaguely, in a doubting, absent voice.

Birkin’s heart contracted swiftly, in a sudden fire of bitterness. It all meant nothing to her. He had been mistaken again. She was in some self-satisfied world of her own. He and his hopes were accidentals, violations to her. It drove her father to a pitch of mad exasperation. He had had to put up with this all his life, from her.

“Well, what do you say?” he cried.

She winced. Then she glanced down at her father, half-frightened, and she said:

“I didn’t speak, did I?” as if she were afraid she might have committed herself.

“No,” said her father, exasperated. “But you needn’t look like an idiot. You’ve got your wits, haven’t you?”

She ebbed away in silent hostility.

“I’ve got my wits, what does that mean?” she repeated, in a sullen voice of antagonism.

“You heard what was asked you, didn’t you?” cried her father in anger.

“Of course I heard.”

“Well, then, can’t you answer?” thundered her father.

“Why should I?”

At the impertinence of this retort, he went stiff. But he said nothing.

“No,” said Birkin, to help out the occasion, “there’s no need to answer at once. You can say when you like.”

Her eyes flashed with a powerful light.

“Why should I say anything?” she cried. “You do this off your own bat,