Women in Love

'She might. But I think she won't. She drops her art if anything else

catches her. Her contrariness prevents her taking it seriously--she

must never be too serious, she feels she might give herself away. And

she won't give herself away--she's always on the defensive. That's what

I can't stand about her type. By the way, how did things go off with

Pussum after I left you? I haven't heard anything.' 'Oh, rather disgusting. Halliday turned objectionable, and I only just

saved myself from jumping in his stomach, in a real old-fashioned row.' Birkin was silent.

'Of course,' he said, 'Julius is somewhat insane. On the one hand he's

had religious mania, and on the other, he is fascinated by obscenity.

Either he is a pure servant, washing the feet of Christ, or else he is

making obscene drawings of Jesus--action and reaction--and between the

two, nothing. He is really insane. He wants a pure lily, another girl,

with a baby face, on the one hand, and on the other, he MUST have the

Pussum, just to defile himself with her.' 'That's what I can't make out,' said Gerald. 'Does he love her, the

Pussum, or doesn't he?' 'He neither does nor doesn't. She is the harlot, the actual harlot of

adultery to him. And he's got a craving to throw himself into the filth

of her. Then he gets up and calls on the name of the lily of purity,

the baby-faced girl, and so enjoys himself all round. It's the old

story--action and reaction, and nothing between.' 'I don't know,' said Gerald, after a pause, 'that he does insult the

Pussum so very much. She strikes me as being rather foul.' 'But I thought you liked her,' exclaimed Birkin. 'I always felt fond of

her. I never had anything to do with her, personally, that's true.' 'I liked her all right, for a couple of days,' said Gerald. 'But a week

of her would have turned me over. There's a certain smell about the

skin of those women, that in the end is sickening beyond words--even if

you like it at first.' 'I know,' said Birkin. Then he added, rather fretfully, 'But go to bed,

Gerald. God knows what time it is.' Gerald looked at his watch, and at length rose off the bed, and went to

his room. But he returned in a few minutes, in his shirt.

'One thing,' he said, seating himself on the bed again. 'We finished up

rather stormily, and I never had time to give her anything.' 'Money?' said Birkin. 'She'll get what she wants from Halliday or from

one of her acquaintances.' 'But then,' said Gerald, 'I'd rather give her her dues and settle the

account.' 'She doesn't care.' 'No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one would

rather it were closed.' 'Would you?' said Birkin. He was looking at the white legs of Gerald,

as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. They were

white-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet they

moved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they were

childish.