'Will you say good-night to me?' asked Birkin, in a voice that was
strangely soft and smooth. Dora drifted away at once, like a leaf
lifted on a breath of wind. But Billy went softly forward, slow and
willing, lifting his pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed. Ursula
watched the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of the
boy, so gently. Then Birkin lifted his fingers and touched the boy's
round, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love. Neither spoke.
Billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or like an acolyte, Birkin was
a tall, grave angel looking down to him.
'Are you going to be kissed?' Ursula broke in, speaking to the little
girl. But Dora edged away like a tiny Dryad that will not be touched.
'Won't you say good-night to Mr Birkin? Go, he's waiting for you,' said
Ursula. But the girl-child only made a little motion away from him.
'Silly Dora, silly Dora!' said Ursula.
Birkin felt some mistrust and antagonism in the small child. He could
not understand it.
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