He was coming back again at evening, they were all dining together, and he had booked seats for the party, excepting Birkin, at a music-hall.
At night they came back to the flat very late again, again flushed with drink.

Again the man-servant--who invariably disappeared between the hours of ten and twelve at night--came in silently and inscrutably with tea, bending in a slow, strange, leopard-like fashion to put the tray softly on the table.

His face was immutable, aristocratic-looking, tinged slightly with grey under the skin; he was young and good-looking.

But Birkin felt a slight sickness, looking at him, and feeling the slight greyness as an ash or a corruption, in the aristocratic inscrutability of expression a nauseating, bestial stupidity.
Again they talked cordially and rousedly together.

But already a certain friability was coming over the party, Birkin was mad with irritation, Halliday was turning in an insane hatred against Gerald, the Pussum was becoming hard and cold, like a flint knife, and Halliday was laying himself out to her.