Ursula was watching him as if furtively, not really aware of what she was seeing. There was a great physical attractiveness in him—a curious hidden richness, that came through his thinness and his pallor like another voice, conveying another knowledge of him. It was in the curves of his brows and his chin, rich, fine, exquisite curves, the powerful beauty of life itself. She could not say what it was. But there was a sense of richness and of liberty.
“But we are sensual enough, without making ourselves so, aren’t we?” she asked, turning to him with a certain golden laughter flickering under her greenish eyes, like a challenge. And immediately the queer, careless, terribly attractive smile came over his eyes and brows, though his mouth did not relax.
“No,” he said, “we aren’t. We’re too full of ourselves.”
“Surely it isn’t a matter of conceit,” she cried.
“That and nothing else.”
She was frankly puzzled.
“Don’t you think that people are most conceited of all about their sensual powers?” she asked.
“That’s why they aren’t sensual—only sensuous—which is another matter. They’re always aware of themselves—and they’re so conceited, that rather than release themselves, and live in another world, from another centre, they’d—”
“You want your tea, don’t you,” said Hermione, turning to Ursula with a gracious kindliness. “You’ve worked all day—”
Birkin stopped short. A spasm of anger and chagrin went over Ursula. His face set. And he bade good-bye, as if he had ceased to notice her.