gaze. 'Barnes is starting his school of aesthetics, and
Olandese is going to give a set of discourses on the Italian national
policy-'

'Both rubbish,' he said.

'No, I don't think so,' said Hermione.

'Which do you admire, then?'

'I admire both. Barnes is a pioneer. And then I am interested in Italy,
in her coming to national consciousness.'

'I wish she'd come to something different from national consciousness,
then,' said Birkin; 'especially as it only means a sort of
commercial-industrial consciousness. I hate Italy and her national
rant. And I think Barnes is an amateur.'

Hermione was silent for some moments, in a state of hostility. But yet,
she had got Birkin back again into her world! How subtle her influence
was, she seemed to start his irritable attention into her direction
exclusively, in one minute. He was her creature.

'No,' she said, 'you are wrong.' Then a sort of tension came over her,
she raised her face like the pythoness inspired with oracles, and went
on, in rhapsodic manner: 'Il Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il piu
grande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sono
tutti--' She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of the Italians she
thought in their language.

He listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then he said:

'For all that, I don't like it. Their nationalism is just
industrialism--that and a shallow jealousy I detest so much.'

'I think you are wrong--I think you are wrong--' said Hermione. 'It
seems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern Italian's
PASSION, for it is a passion, for Italy, L'Italia--'

'Do you know Italy well?' Ursula asked of Hermione. Hermione hated to
be broken in upon in this manner. Yet she answered mildly:

'Yes, pretty well. I spent several years of my girlhood there, with my
mother. My mother died in Florence.'

'Oh.'

There was a pause, painful to Ursula and to Birkin. Hermione however
seemed abstracted and calm. Birkin was white, his eyes glowed as if he
were in a fever, he was far too over-wrought. How Ursula suffered in
this tense atmosphere of strained wills! Her head seemed bound round by
iron bands.

Birkin rang the bell for tea. They could not wait for Gudrun any
longer. When the door was opened, the cat walked in.

'Micio! Micio!' called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. The
young cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walk
he advanced to her side.

'Vieni--vieni