"I know," he said, "it just doesn't centre. The old ideals are dead as nails—nothing there. It seems to me there remains only this perfect union with a woman—sort of ultimate marriage—and there isn't anything else."
"And you mean if there isn't the woman, there's nothing?" said Gerald.
"Pretty well that—seeing there's no God."
"Then we're hard put to it," said Gerald. And he turned to look out of the window at the flying, golden landscape.
Birkin could not help seeing how beautiful and soldierly his face was, with a certain courage to be indifferent.
"You think it's heavy odds against us?" said Birkin.
"If we've got to make our life up out of a woman, one woman, woman only, yes, I do," said Gerald. "I don't be-lieve I shall ever make up my life, at that rate."
Birkin watched him almost angrily.
"You are a born unbeliever," he said.
"I only feel what I feel," said Gerald. And he looked again at Birkin almost sardonically, with his blue, manly, sharp-lighted eyes. Birkin's eyes were at the moment full of anger. But swiftly they became troubled, doubtful, then full of a warm, rich affectionateness and laughter.
"It troubles me very much, Gerald," he said, wrinkling his brows.
"I can see it does," said Gerald, uncovering his mouth in a manly, quick, soldierly laugh.
Gerald was held unconsciously by the other man. He wanted to be near him, he wanted to be within his sphere of influence. There was something very congenial to him in Birkin. But yet, beyond this, he did not take much notice. He felt that he, himself, Gerald, had harder and more durable truths than any the other man knew. He felt himself older, more knowing. It was the quick-changing warmth and venality and brilliant warm utterance he loved in his friend. It was the rich play of words and quick interchange of feel- ings he enjoyed. The real content of the words he never really considered; he himself knew better.
Birkin knew this. He knew that Gerald wanted to be fond of him without taking him seriously. And this made
