He was aloof and white, and somehow evanescent.
'There's the bath-room now, if you want it,' he said generally, and was going away again, when Gerald called: 'I say, Rupert!' 'What ?' The single white figure appeared again, a presence in the room.
'What do you think of that figure there?
I want to know,' Gerald asked.
Birkin, white and strangely ghostly, went over to the carved figure of the negro woman in labour.

Her nude, protuberant body crouched in a strange, clutching posture, her hands gripping the ends of the band, above her breast.
'It is art,' said Birkin.
'Very beautiful, it's very beautiful,' said the Russian.
They all drew near to look.

Gerald looked at the group of men, the Russian golden and like a water-plant, Halliday tall and heavily, brokenly beautiful, Birkin very white and indefinite, not to be assigned, as he looked closely at the carven woman.

Strangely elated, Gerald also lifted his eyes to the face of the wooden figure.

And his heart contracted.
He saw vividly with his spirit the grey, forward-stretching face of the negro woman, African and tense, abstracted in utter physical stress.