And he followed her up the hill-side.

The sun had gone behind the hill, and shadows were clinging to the earth, the sky above was full of travelling light.
'A poor song for a dance,' said Birkin to Ursula, standing before her with a sardonic, flickering laugh on his face.

And in another second, he was singing softly to himself, and dancing a grotesque step-dance in front of her, his limbs and body shaking loose, his face flickering palely, a constant thing, whilst his feet beat a rapid mocking tattoo, and his body seemed to hang all loose and quaking in between, like a shadow.
'I think we've all gone mad,' she said, laughing rather frightened.
'Pity we aren't madder,' he answered, as he kept up the incessant shaking dance.

Then suddenly he leaned up to her and kissed her fingers lightly, putting his face to hers and looking into her eyes with a pale grin.

She stepped back, affronted.
'Offended-- ?' he asked ironically, suddenly going quite still and reserved again.