“Not very,” he said.
She nodded them both “Good-night’, and went back slowly to her own set. Gudrun watched her curious walk, stiff and jerking at the loins. They heard her level, toneless voice distinctly.
“He won’t come over;—he is otherwise engaged,” it said. There was more laughter and lowered voices and mockery at the table.
“Is she a friend of yours?” said Gudrun, looking calmly at Gerald.
“I’ve stayed at Halliday’s flat with Birkin,” he said, meeting her slow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pussum was one of his mistresses—and he knew she knew.
She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted an iced cocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald—he wondered what was up.
The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were talking out loudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on his marriage.
“Oh, don’t make me think of Birkin,” Halliday was squealing. “He makes me perfectly sick. He is as bad as Jesus. ‘Lord, what must I do to be saved!’”
He giggled to himself tipsily.
“Do you remember,” came the quick voice of the Russian, “the letters he used to send. ‘Desire is holy—’”