Yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she spoke to Birkin’s landlady at the door.
“Good evening! Is Mr Birkin in? Can I see him?”
“Yes, he’s in. He’s in his study.”
Ursula slipped past the woman. His door opened. He had heard her voice.
“Hello!” he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing there with the valise in her hand, and marks of tears on her face. She was one who wept without showing many traces, like a child.
“Do I look a sight?” she said, shrinking.
“No—why? Come in,” he took the bag from her hand and they went into the study.
There—immediately, her lips began to tremble like those of a child that remembers again, and the tears came rushing up.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, taking her in his arms. She sobbed violently on his shoulder, whilst he held her still, waiting.
“What’s the matter?” he said again, when she was quieter. But she only pressed her face further into his shoulder, in pain, like a child that cannot tell.