Women in Love

'You like the wrong things, Rupert,' he said, 'things against

yourself.' 'Oh, I know, this isn't everything,' Birkin replied, moving away.

When Gerald went back to his room from the bath, he also carried his

clothes. He was so conventional at home, that when he was really away,

and on the loose, as now, he enjoyed nothing so much as full

outrageousness. So he strode with his blue silk wrap over his arm and

felt defiant.

The Pussum lay in her bed, motionless, her round, dark eyes like black,

unhappy pools. He could only see the black, bottomless pools of her

eyes. Perhaps she suffered. The sensation of her inchoate suffering

roused the old sharp flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost of

cruelty.

'You are awake now,' he said to her.

'What time is it?' came her muted voice.

She seemed to flow back, almost like liquid, from his approach, to sink

helplessly away from him. Her inchoate look of a violated slave, whose

fulfilment lies in her further and further violation, made his nerves

quiver with acutely desirable sensation. After all, his was the only

will, she was the passive substance of his will. He tingled with the

subtle, biting sensation. And then he knew, he must go away from her,

there must be pure separation between them.

It was a quiet and ordinary breakfast, the four men all looking very

clean and bathed. Gerald and the Russian were both correct and COMME IL

FAUT in appearance and manner, Birkin was gaunt and sick, and looked a

failure in his attempt to be a properly dressed man, like Gerald and

Maxim. Halliday wore tweeds and a green flannel shirt, and a rag of a

tie, which was just right for him. The Hindu brought in a great deal of

soft toast, and looked exactly the same as he had looked the night

before, statically the same.

At the end of the breakfast the Pussum appeared, in a purple silk wrap

with a shimmering sash. She had recovered herself somewhat, but was

mute and lifeless still. It was a torment to her when anybody spoke to

her. Her face was like a small, fine mask, sinister too, masked with

unwilling suffering. It was almost midday. Gerald rose and went away to

his business, glad to get out. But he had not finished. 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.