‘I thought it was savage carving again.’

‘No, hers. That’s what they are—animals and birds, sometimes odd small people in everyday dress, really rather wonderful when they come off. They have a sort of funniness that is quite unconscious and subtle.’

‘She might be a well–known artist one day?’ mused Gerald.

‘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.’