'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?'

'I don't know,' Birkin answered discreetly.

'Have I seen him before?' she asked.

'I don't think so. I haven't,' he replied. And she was satisfied. Her
eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like a
queen in repose. Then she started, a little social smile came on her
face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she
bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then
immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle look was on her face,
she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay,
hating them all.

'Mother,' called Diana, a handsome girl a little older than Winifred,
'I may have wine, mayn't I?'

'Yes, you may have wine,' replied the mother automatically, for she was
perfectly indifferent to the question.