‘Father is lying down, he is not quite well.’

‘How is he, really?’ called one of the married daughters, peeping round the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table shedding its artificial flowers.

‘He has no pain, but he feels tired,’ replied Winifred, the girl with the hair down her back.

The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. At the far end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She had Birkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would say in a low voice to Birkin:

‘Who is that young man?’