Excurse

Next day Birkin sought Ursula out. It happened to be the half-day at
the Grammar School. He appeared towards the end of the morning, and
asked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon. She consented.
But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.

The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the motor-car, and she
sat beside him. But still her face was closed against him,
unresponding. When she became like this, like a wall against him, his
heart contracted.

His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. At
moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula or
Hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. Why bother! Why
strive for a coherent, satisfied life? Why not drift on in a series of
accidents-like a picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about human
relationships? Why take them seriously-male or female? Why form any
serious connections at all? Why not be casual, drifting along, taking
all for what it was worth?

And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious
living.

'Look,' he said, 'what I bought.' The car was running along a broad
white road, between autumn trees.

He gave her a little bit of screwed-up paper. She took it and opened
it.

'How lovely,' she cried.

She examined the gift.

'How perfectly lovely!' she cried again. 'But why do you give them me?'
She put the question offensively.