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on her face, that always came when she was in some false
situation.
Birkin was the good angel. He came smiling to them with
his affected social grace, that somehow was never QUITE
right. But he took off his hat and smiled at them with a real
smile in his eyes, so that Brangwen cried out heartily in re-
lief:
‘How do you do? You’re better, are you?’
‘Yes, I’m better. How do you do, Mrs Brangwen? I know
Gudrun and Ursula very well.’
His eyes smiled full of natural warmth. He had a soft,
flattering manner with women, particularly with women
who were not young.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Brangwen, cool but yet gratified. ‘I have
heard them speak of you often enough.’
He laughed. Gudrun looked aside, feeling she was being
belittled. People were standing about in groups, some wom-
en were sitting in the shade of the walnut tree, with cups
of tea in their hands, a waiter in evening dress was hurry-
ing round, some girls were simpering with parasols, some
young men, who had just come in from rowing, were sitting
cross-legged on the grass, coatless, their shirt-sleeves rolled
up in manly fashion, their hands resting on their white flan-
nel trousers, their gaudy ties floating about, as they laughed
and tried to be witty with the young damsels.
‘Why,’ thought Gudrun churlishly, ‘don’t they have the
manners to put their coats on, and not to assume such inti-
macy in their appearance.’
She abhorred the ordinary young man, with his hair
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