It was a subtle insult
that never failed to exasperate her father.
'Mr Birkin came to speak to YOU, not to me,' said her father.
'Oh, did he!' she exclaimed vaguely, as if it did not concern her.
Then, recollecting herself, she turned to him rather radiantly, but
still quite superficially, and said: 'Was it anything special?'
'I hope so,' he said, ironically.
'--To propose to you, according to all accounts,' said her father.
'Oh,' said Ursula.
'Oh,' mocked her father, imitating her. 'Have you nothing more to say?'
She winced as if violated.
'Did you really come to propose to me?' she asked of Birkin, as if it
were a joke.
'Yes,' he said. 'I suppose I came to propose.' He seemed to fight shy
of the last word.
'Did you?' she cried, with her vague radiance. He might have been
saying anything whatsoever. She seemed pleased.
'Yes,' he answered. 'I wanted to--I wanted you to agree to marry me.'
She looked at him. His eyes were flickering with mixed lights, wanting
something of her, yet not wanting it.
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