Gudrun did not reply for some moments. She had still to get over the feeling of insult at the liberty taken with her freedom.
“What did Rupert say—do you know?” she asked.
“He said it would be most awfully jolly,” said Ursula.
Again Gudrun looked down, and was silent.
“Don’t you think it would?” said Ursula, tentatively. She was never quite sure how many defences Gudrun was having round herself.
Gudrun raised her face with difficulty and held it averted.
“I think it might be awfully jolly, as you say,” she replied. “But don’t you think it was an unpardonable liberty to take—to talk of such things to Rupert—who after all—you see what I mean, Ursula—they might have been two men arranging an outing with some little type they’d picked up. Oh, I think it’s unforgivable, quite!” She used the French word “type.”
Her eyes flashed, her soft face was flushed and sullen. Ursula looked on, rather frightened, frightened most of all because she thought Gudrun seemed rather common, really like a little type. But she had not the courage quite to think this—not right out.
“Oh no,” she cried, stammering. “Oh no—not at all like that—oh no! No, I think it’s rather beautiful, the friendship between Rupert and Gerald. They just are simple—they say anything to each other, like brothers.”
Gudrun flushed deeper. She could not bear it that Gerald gave her away—even to Birkin.