Then he
rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.
At length it was over, the meal. Several men strolled out into the
garden. There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron
fence shutting off the little field or park. The view was pleasant; a
highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the
spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with
new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely
from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a
crust.
Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet hotness on his
hand.
'Pretty cattle, very pretty,' said Marshall, one of the
brothers-in-law. 'They give the best milk you can have.'
'Yes,' said Birkin.
'Eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty!' said Marshall, in a queer high
falsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions of
laughter in his stomach.
'Who won the race, Lupton?' he called to the bridegroom, to hide the
fact that he was laughing.
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