all its flowers of mud, is transcended, and more or less finished --" I do wonder what the flowers of mud are. Pussum, you are a flower of mud.'

`Thank you -- and what are you?'

`Oh, I'm another, surely, according to this letter! We're all flowers of mud -- Fleurs -- hic! du mal! It's perfectly wonderful, Birkin harrowing Hell -- harrowing the Pompadour -- Hic!'

`Go on -- go on,' said Maxim. `What comes next? It's really very interesting.'

`I think it's awful cheek to write like that,' said the Pussum.

`Yes -- yes, so do I,' said the Russian. `He is a megalomaniac, of course, it is a form of religious mania. He thinks he is the Saviour of man -- go on reading.'

`Surely,' Halliday intoned, ` "surely goodness and mercy hath followed me all the days of my life --" ' he broke off and giggled. Then he began again, intoning like a clergyman. ` "Surely there will come an end in us to this desire -- for the constant going apart, -- this passion for putting asunder -- everything -- ourselves, reducing ourselves part from part -- reacting in intimacy only for destruction, -- using sex as a great reducing agent, reducing the two great elements of male and female from their highly complex unity -- reducing the old ideas, going back to the savages for our sensations, -- always seeking to lose ourselves in some ultimate black sensation, mindless and infinite -- burning only with destructive fires, raging on with the hope of being burnt out utterly --" '

`I want to go,' said Gudrun to Gerald, as she signalled the waiter. Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks were flushed. The strange effect of Birkin's letter read aloud in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear and resonant, phrase by phrase, made the blood mount into her head as if she were mad.

She rose, whilst Gerald was paying the bill, and walked over to Halliday's table. They all glanced up at her.

`Excuse me,' she said. `Is that a genuine letter you are reading?'

`Oh yes,' said Halliday. `Quite genuine.'

`May I see?'

Smiling foolishly he handed it to her, as if hypnotised.

`Thank you,' she said.

And she turned and walked out of the Cafe with the letter, all down the brilliant room, between the tables, in her measured fashion. It was some moments before anybody realised what was happening.

From Halliday's table came half articulate cries, then somebody booed, then all the far end of the place began booing after Gudrun's retreating form. She was fashionably dressed in blackish-green and silver, her hat was brilliant green, like the sheen on an insect, but the brim was soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coat was dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur, and great fur cuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and black velvet, her stockings and shoes were silver grey. She moved with slow, fashionable indifference to the door. The porter opened obsequiously for her, and, at her nod, hurried to the edge of the pavement and whistled for a taxi. The two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved round towards her, like two eyes.

Gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not having caught her misdeed. He heard the Pussum's voice saying: