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 Cafe.

Gudrun hated the Cafe, 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.

She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring with
black, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. She
would greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kind
of sneering familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure to
sit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them all
objectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie of
apish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew they were! Her blood beat
black and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. Yet she must sit
and watch, watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From every
side of the Cafe, eyes turned half furtively, half jeeringly at her,
men looking over their shoulders, women under their hats.