Women in Love (Barnes & Noble Classics S - D. H. Lawrence [219]
“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 depraved girl, as she stood near Gerald.
“Are you staying in town long?” she asked.
“To-night only.”
“Oh, only to-night. Are you coming over to speak to Julius?”
“Not to-night.”
“Oh very well. I’ll tell him then.” Then came her touch of diablerie. “You’re looking awf’lly fit.”
“Yes—I feel it.” Gerald was quite calm and easy, a spark of satiric amusement in his eye.
“Are you having a good time?”
This was a direct blow for Gudrun, spoken in a level, toneless voice of callous ease.
“Yes,” he replied, quite colourlessly.
“I’m awf’lly sorry you aren’t coming round to the flat. You aren’t very faithful to your fwiends.”
“Not very,” he said.
She nodded them both “Good-night,” and went back slowly to her own set. Gudrun watched her curious walk, stiff and jerking at the loins. They heard her level, toneless voice distinctly.
“He won’t come over;—he is otherwise engaged,” it said. There was more laughter and lowered voices and mockery at the table.
“Is she a friend of yours?” said Gudrun, looking calmly at Gerald.
“I’ve stayed at Halliday’s flat with Birkin,” he said, meeting her slow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pussum was one of his mistresses—and he knew she knew.
She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted an iced cocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald—he wondered what was up.
The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were talking out loudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on his marriage.
“Oh, don’t make me think of Birkin,” Halliday was squealing. “He makes me perfectly sick. He is as bad as Jesus. ‘Lord, what must I do to be saved!’ ”
He giggled to himself tipsily.
“Do you remember,” came the quick voice of the Russian, “the letters he used to send? ‘Desire is holy—’ ”
“Oh yes!” cried Halliday. “Oh, how perfectly splendid. Why, I’ve got one in my pocket. I’m sure I have.”
He took out various papers from his pocket book.
“I’m sure I’ve—hic! Oh dear!—got one.”
Gerald and Gudrun were watching absorbedly. “Oh yes, how perfectly—hic!—splendid! Don’t make me laugh, Pussum, it gives me the hiccup. Hic!—” They all giggled.
“What did he say in that one?” the Pussum asked, leaning forward, her dark, soft hair falling and swinging against her face. There was something curiously indecent, obscene about her small, longish, dark skull, particularly when the ears showed.
“Wait—oh do wait! No-o, I won’t give it to you, I’ll read it aloud. I’ll read you the choice bits—hic! Oh dear! Do you think if I drink water it would take off this hiccup? Hic! Oh, I feel perfectly helpless.”
“Isn’t that the letter about uniting the dark and the light—and the Flux of Corruption?” asked Maxim, in his precise, quick voice.
“I believe so,” said the Pussum.
“Oh is it? I’d forgotten—hic!—it was that one,” Halliday said, opening the letter. “Hic! Oh yes. How perfectly splendid! This is one of the best. ‘There is a phase in every race—’ ” he read in the sing-song, slow, distinct voice of a clergyman reading the Scriptures, “ ‘when the desire for destruction overcomes every other desire. In the individual, this desire is ultimately a desire for destruction in the self’—hic—” he paused and looked up.
“I hope he’s going