this manner. Yet she answered mildly:

“Yes, pretty well. I spent several years of my girlhood there, with my mother. My mother died in Florence.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause, painful to Ursula and to Birkin. Hermione however seemed abstracted and calm. Birkin was white, his eyes glowed as if he were in a fever, he was far too over-wrought. How Ursula suffered in this tense atmosphere of strained wills! Her head seemed bound round by iron bands.

Birkin rang the bell for tea. They could not wait for Gudrun any longer. When the door was opened, the cat walked in.

“Micio! Micio!” called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. The young cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walk he advanced to her side.

“Vieni—vieni quá,” Hermione was saying, in her