'Not only,' said Birkin. 'Ninety-nine men out of a hundred don't want
my hat.' 'That's a matter of opinion,' said Gerald.
'Or the hat,' laughed the bridegroom.
'And if he does want my hat, such as it is,' said Birkin, 'why, surely
it is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, or
my liberty as a free and indifferent man. If I am compelled to offer
fight, I lose the latter. It is a question which is worth more to me,
my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat.' 'Yes,' said Hermione, watching Birkin strangely. 'Yes.' 'But would you let somebody come and snatch your hat off your head?'
the bride asked of Hermione.
The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to
this new speaker.
'No,' she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain a
chuckle. 'No, I shouldn't let anybody take my hat off my head.' 'How would you prevent it?' asked Gerald.
'I don't know,' replied Hermione slowly. 'Probably I should kill him.' There was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and convincing
humour in her bearing.
'Of course,' said Gerald, 'I can see Rupert's point. It is a question
to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important.' 'Peace of body,' said Birkin.
'Well, as you like there,' replied Gerald. 'But how are you going to
decide this for a nation?' 'Heaven preserve me,' laughed Birkin.
'Yes, but suppose you have to?' Gerald persisted.
'Then it is the same. If the national crown-piece is an old hat, then
the thieving gent may have it.' 'But CAN the national or racial hat be an old hat?' insisted Gerald.
'Pretty well bound to be, I believe,' said Birkin.
'I'm not so sure,' said Gerald.
'I don't agree, Rupert,' said Hermione.
'All right,' said Birkin.
'I'm all for the old national hat,' laughed Gerald.
'And a fool you look in it,' cried Diana, his pert sister who was just
in her teens.
'Oh, we're quite out of our depths with these old hats,' cried Laura
Crich. 'Dry up now, Gerald. We're going to drink toasts. Let us drink
toasts. Toasts--glasses, glasses--now then, toasts! Speech! Speech!' Birkin, thinking about race or national death, watched his glass being
filled with champagne. The bubbles broke at the rim, the man withdrew,
and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine, Birkin
drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He
felt a sharp constraint.