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said Birkin, turning aside. It seemed to him Gerald was
talking for the sake of talking. ‘Go away, it wearies me—it’s
too late at night,’ he said.
‘I wish you’d tell me something that DID matter,’ said
Gerald, looking down all the time at the face of the oth-
er man, waiting for something. But Birkin turned his face
aside.
‘All right then, go to sleep,’ said Gerald, and he laid his
hand affectionately on the other man’s shoulder, and went
away.
In the morning when Gerald awoke and heard Birkin
move, he called out: ‘I still think I ought to give the Pussum
ten pounds.’
‘Oh God!’ said Birkin, ‘don’t be so matter-of-fact. Close
the account in your own soul, if you like. It is there you can’t
close it.’
‘How do you know I can’t?’
‘Knowing you.’
Gerald meditated for some moments.
‘It seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with the
Pussums, is to pay them.’
‘And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And the
right thing for wives: live under the same roof with them.
Integer vitae scelerisque purus—‘ said Birkin.
‘There’s no need to be nasty about it,’ said Gerald.
‘It bores me. I’m not interested in your peccadilloes.’
‘And I don’t care whether you are or not—I am.’
The morning was again sunny. The maid had been in and
brought the water, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin, sit-

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