The talk went on like a rattle of small artillery, always slightly sententious, with a sententiousness that was only emphasised by the continual crackling of a witticism, the continual spatter of verbal jest, designed to give a tone of flippancy to a stream of conversation that was all critical and general, a canal of conversation rather than a stream.
The attitude was mental and very wearying.

Only the elderly sociologist, whose mental fibre was so tough as to be insentient, seemed to be thoroughly happy.

Birkin was down in the mouth.

Hermione appeared, with amazing persistence, to wish to ridicule him and make him look ignominious in the eyes of everybody.

And it was surprising how she seemed to succeed, how helpless he seemed against her.