Women in Love. D. H. Lawrence

Hermione to each of them, one by one. And they all said yes, feeling somehow like prisoners marshalled for exercise. Birkin only refused.

      “Will you come for a walk, Rupert?”

      “No, Hermione.”

      “But are you sure?”

      “Quite sure.” There was a second’s hesitation.

      “And why not?” sang Hermione’s question. It made her blood run sharp, to be thwarted in even so trifling a matter. She intended them all to walk with her in the park.

      “Because I don’t like trooping off in a gang,” he said.

      Her voice rumbled in her throat for a moment. Then she said, with a curious stray calm:

      “Then we’ll leave a little boy behind, if he’s sulky.”

      And she looked really gay, while she insulted him. But it merely made him stiff.

      She trailed off to the rest of the company, only turning to wave her handkerchief to him, and to chuckle with laughter, singing out:

      “Good-bye, good-bye, little boy.”

      “Good-bye, impudent hag,” he said to himself.

      They all went through the park. Hermione wanted to show them the wild daffodils on a little slope. “This way, this way,” sang her leisurely voice at intervals. And they had all to come this way. The daffodils were pretty, but who could see them? Ursula was stiff all over with resentment by this time, resentment of the whole atmosphere. Gudrun, mocking and objective, watched and registered everything.

      They looked at the shy deer, and Hermione talked to the stag, as if he too were a boy she wanted to wheedle and fondle. He was male, so she must exert some kind of power over him. They trailed home by the fish-ponds, and Hermione told them about the quarrel of two male swans, who had striven for the love of the one lady. She chuckled and laughed as she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under his wing, on the gravel.

      When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on the lawn and sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far:

      “Rupert! Rupert!” The first syllable was high and slow, the second dropped down. “Roo-o-opert.”

      But there was no answer. A maid appeared.

      “Where is Mr. Birkin, Alice?” asked the mild straying voice of Hermione. But under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane will!

      “I think he’s in his room, madam.”

      “Is he?”

      Hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor, singing out in her high, small call:

      “Ru-oo-pert! Ru-oo pert!”