“Very lovely!” said Gudrun, sarcastically.
Ursula was put out.
“Of course,” she said, “I think Gerald spoke to Rupert so that it shouldn’t seem like an outing with a type—”
“I know, of course,” said Gudrun, “that he quite commonly does take up with that sort.”
“Does he!” said Ursula. “Why how do you know?”
“I know of a model in Chelsea,” said Gudrun coldly. Now Ursula was silent. “Well,” she said at last, with a doubtful laugh, “I hope he has a good time with her.” At which Gudrun looked more glum.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR
Christmas drew near, all four prepared for flight. Birkin and Ursula were busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to be sent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose at last. Gudrun was very much excited. She loved to be on the wing.
She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and Paris to Innsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and Birkin. In London they stayed one night. They went to the music-hall, and afterwards to the Pompadour Café.
Gudrun hated the Café, yet she always went back to it, as did most of the artists of her acquaintance. She loathed its atmosphere of petty vice and petty jealousy and petty art. Yet she always called in again, when she was in town. It was as if she had to return to this small, slow, central whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution: just give it a look.