Page 581 - sons-and-lovers

name; it’s Paul Morel.’ Then I told him about your saying
you would go and see him. ‘What does he want?’ he said, as
if you were a policeman.’
‘And did he say he would see me?’ asked Paul.
‘He wouldn’t say anything—good, bad or indifferent,’ re-
plied the doctor.
‘Why not?’
‘That’s what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day
in, day out. Can’t get a word of information out of him.’
‘Do you think I might go?’ asked Paul.
‘You might.’
There was a feeling of connection between the rival men,
more than ever since they had fought. In a way Morel felt
guilty towards the other, and more or less responsible. And
being in such a state of soul himself, he felt an almost pain-
ful nearness to Dawes, who was suffering and despairing,
too. Besides, they had met in a naked extremity of hate, and
it was a bond. At any rate, the elemental man in each had
met.
He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. An-
sell’s card. This sister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him
down the ward.
‘A visitor to see you, Jim Crow,’ she said.
Dawes turned over suddenly with a startled grunt.
‘Eh?’
‘Caw!’ she mocked. ‘He can only say ‘Caw!’ I have brought
you a gentleman to see you. Now say ‘Thank you,’ and show
some manners.’
Dawes looked swiftly with his dark, startled eyes be-

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