When she got near the park-gate, she heard the click of the latch. He was there, then, in the darkness of the wood, and had seen her!
`You are good and early,' he said out of the dark. `Was everything all right?'

`Perfectly easy.'

He shut the gate quietly after her, and made a spot of light on the dark ground, showing the pallid flowers still standing there open in the night. They went on apart, in silence.

`Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself this morning with that chair?' she asked.

`No, no!'

`When you had that pneumonia, what did it do to you?'

`Oh nothing! it left my heart not so strong and the lungs not so elastic. But it always does that.'

`And you ought not to make violent physical efforts?'

`Not often.'

She plodded on in an angry silence.

`Did you hate Clifford?' she said at last.

`Hate him, no! I've met too many like him to upset myself hating him. I know beforehand I don't care for his sort, and I let it go at that.'

`What is his sort?'

`Nay, you know better than I do. The sort of youngish gentleman a bit like a lady, and no balls.'

`What balls?'

`Balls! A man's balls!'

She pondered this.

`But is it a question of that?' she said, a little annoyed.

`You say a man's got no brain, when he's a fool: and no heart, when he's mean; and no stomach when he's a funker. And when he's got none of that spunky wild bit of a man in him, you say he's got no balls. When he's a sort of tame.'

She pondered this.

`And is Clifford tame?' she asked.

`Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up against 'em.'

`And do you think you're not tame?'

`Maybe not quite!'

At length she saw in the distance a yellow light.

She stood still.

`There is a light!' she said.

`I always leave a light in the house,' he said.

She went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why she was going with him at all.

He unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. As if it were a prison, she thought! The kettle was singing by the red fire, there were cups on the table.

She sat in the wooden arm-chair by the fire. It was warm after the chill outside.

`I'll take off my shoes, they are wet,' she said.

She sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. He went to the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. She was warm: she took off her coat. He hung it on the door.

`Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?' he asked.

`I don't think I want anything,' she said, looking at the table. `But you eat.'

`Nay, I don't care about it. I'll just feed the dog.'

He tramped with a quiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him anxiously.

`Ay, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it!' he said.

He set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by the wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog instead of eating, came to him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled.

He slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer.

`What's amiss wi' thee then? Art upset because there's somebody else here? Tha'rt a female, tha art! Go an' eat thy supper.'

He put his hand on her head, and the bitch leaned her head sideways against him. He slowly, softly pulled the long silky ear.

`There!' he said. `There! Go an' eat thy supper! Go!'

He tilted his chair towards the pot on the mat, and the dog meekly went, and fell to eating.

`Do you like dogs?' Connie asked him.

`No, not really. They're too tame and clinging.'

He had taken off his leggings and was unlacing his heavy boots. Connie had turned from the fire. How bare the little room was! Yet over his head on the wall hung a hideous enlarged photograph of a young married couple, apparently him and a bold-faced young woman, no doubt his wife.

`Is that you?' Connie asked him.

He twisted and looked at the enlargement above his head.

`Ay! Taken just afore we was married, when I was twenty-one.' He looked at it impassively.

`Do you like it?' Connie asked him.

`Like it? No! I never liked the thing. But she fixed it all up to have it done, like.'

He returned to pulling off his boots.

`If you don't like it, why do you keep it hanging there? Perhaps your wife would like to have it,' she said.

He looked up at her with a sudden grin.

`She carted off iverything as was worth taking from th' 'ouse,' he said. `But she left that!'

`Then why do you keep it? for sentimental reasons?'

`Nay, I niver look at it. I hardly knowed it wor theer. It's bin theer sin' we come to this place.'

`Why don't you burn it?' she said.

He twisted round again and looked at the enlarged photograph. It was framed in a brown-and-gilt frame, hideous. It showed a clean-shaven, alert, very young-looking man in a rather high collar, and a somewhat plump, bold young woman with hair fluffed out and crimped, and wearing a dark satin blouse.

`It wouldn't be a bad idea, would it?' he said.

He had pulled off his boots, and put on a pair of slippers. He stood up on the chair, and lifted down the photograph. It left a big pale place on the greenish wall-paper.

`No use dusting it now,' he said, setting the thing against the wall.

He went to the scullery, and returned with hammer and pincers. Sitting where he had sat before, he started to tear off the back-paper from the big frame, and to pull out the sprigs that held the backboard in position, working with the immediate quiet absorption that was characteristic of him.

He soon had the nails out: then he pulled out the backboards, then the enlargement itself, in its solid white mount. He looked at the photograph with amusement.

`Shows me for what I was, a young curate, and her for what she was, a bully,' he said. `The prig and the bully!'

`Let me look!' said Connie.

He did look indeed very clean-shaven and very clean altogether, one of the clean young men of twenty years ago. But even in the photograph his eyes were alert and dauntless. And the woman was not altogether a bully, though her jowl was heavy. There was a touch of appeal in her.

`One never should keep these things,' said Connie. `That one shouldn't! One should never have them made!'

He broke the cardboard photograph and mount over his knee, and when it was small enough, put it on the fire.

`It'll spoil the fire though,' he said.

The glass and the backboard he carefully took upstairs.

The frame he knocked asunder with a few blows of the hammer, making the stucco fly. Then he took the pieces into the scullery.

`We'll burn that tomorrow,' he said. `There's too much plaster-moulding on it.'

Having cleared away, he sat down.

`Did you love your wife?' she asked him.

`Love?' he said. `Did you love Sir Clifford?'

But she was not going to be put off.

`But you cared for her?' she insisted.

`Cared?' He grinned.

`Perhaps you care for her now,' she said.

`Me!' His eyes widened. `Ah no, I can't think of her,' he said quietly.

`Why?'

But he shook his head.

`Then why don't you get a divorce? She'll come back to you one day,' said Connie.

He looked up at her sharply.

`She wouldn't come within a mile of me. She hates me a lot worse than I hate her.'

`You'll see she'll come back to you.'

`That she never will. That's done! It would make me sick to see her.'

`You will see her. And you're not even legally separated, are you?'

`No.'

`Ah well, then she'll come back, and you'll have to take her in.'

He gazed at Connie fixedly. Then he gave the queer toss of his head.

`You might be right. I was a fool ever to come back here. But I felt stranded and had to go somewhere. A man's a poor bit of a wastrel blown about. But you're right. I'll get a divorce and get clear. I hate those things like death, officials and courts and judges. But I've got to get through with it. I'll get a divorce.'

And she saw his jaw set. Inwardly she exulted. `I think I will have a cup of tea now,' she said. He rose to make it. But his face was set. As they sat at table she asked him:

`Why did you marry her? She was commoner than yourself. Mrs Bolton told me about her. She could never understand why you married her.'

He looked at her fixedly.

`I'll tell you,' he said. `The first girl I had, I began with when I was sixteen. She was a school-master's daughter over at Ollerton, pretty, beautiful really. I was supposed to be a clever sort of young fellow from Sheffield Grammar School, with a bit of French and German, very much up aloft. She was the romantic sort that hated commonness. She egged me on to poetry and reading: in a way, she made a man of me. I read and I thought like a house on fire, for her. And I was a clerk in Butterley offices, thin, white-faced fellow fuming with all the things I read. And about everything I talked to her: but everything. We talked ourselves into Persepolis and Timbuctoo. We were the most literary-cultured couple in ten counties. I held forth with rapture to her, positively with rapture. I simply went up in smoke. And she adored me. The serpent in the grass was sex. She somehow didn't have any; at least, not where it's supposed to be. I got thinner and crazier. Then I said we'd got to be lovers. I talked her into it, as usual. So she let me. I was excited, and she never wanted it. She just didn't want it. She adored me, she loved me to talk to her and kiss her: in that way she had a passion for me. But the other, she just didn't want. And there are lots of women like her. And it was just the other that I did want. So there we split. I was cruel, and left her. Then I took on with another girl, a teacher, who had made a scandal by carrying on with a married man and driving him nearly out of his mind. She was a soft, white-skinned, soft sort of a woman, older than me, and played the fiddle. And she was a demon. She loved everything about love, except the sex. Clinging, caressing, creeping into you in every way: but if you forced her to the sex itself, she just ground her teeth and sent out hate. I forced her to it, and she could simply numb me with hate because of it. So I was balked again. I loathed all that. I wanted a woman who wanted me, and wanted it.

`Then came Bertha Coutts. They'd lived next door to us when I was a little lad, so I knew 'em all right. And they were common. Well, Bertha went away to some place or other in Birmingham; she said, as a lady's companion; everybody else said, as a waitress or something in a hotel. Anyhow just when I was more than fed up with that other girl, when I was twenty-one, back comes Bertha, with airs and graces and smart clothes and a sort of bloom on her: a sort of sensual bloom that you'd see sometimes on a woman, or on a trolly. Well, I was in a state of murder. I chucked up my job at Butterley because I thought I was a weed, clerking there: and I got on as overhead blacksmith at Tevershall: shoeing horses mostly. It had been my dad's job, and I'd always been with him. It was a job I liked: handling horses: and it came natural to me. So I stopped talking "fine", as they call it, talking proper English, and went back to talking broad. I still read books, at home: but I blacksmithed and had a pony-trap of my own, and was My Lord Duckfoot. My dad left me three hundred pounds when he died. So I took on with Bertha, and I was glad she was common. I wanted her to be common. I wanted to be common myself. Well, I married her, and she wasn't bad. Those other "pure" women had nearly taken all the balls out of me, but she was all right that way. She wanted me, and made no bones about it. And I was as pleased as punch. That was what I wanted: a woman who wanted me to fuck her. So I fucked her like a good un. And I think she despised me a bit, for being so pleased about it, and bringin' her her breakfast in bed sometimes. She sort of let things go, didn't get me a proper dinner when I came home from work, and if I said anything, flew out at me. And I flew back, hammer and tongs. She flung a cup at me and I took her by the scruff of the neck and squeezed the life out of her. That sort of thing! But she treated me with insolence. And she got so's she'd never have me when I wanted her: never. Always put me off, brutal as you like. And then when she'd put me right off, and I didn't want her, she'd come all lovey-dovey, and get me. And I always went. But when I had her, she'd never come off when I did. Never! She'd just wait. If I kept back for half an hour, she'd keep back longer. And when I'd come and really finished, then she'd start on her own account, and I had to stop inside her till she brought herself off, wriggling and shouting, she'd clutch clutch with herself down there, an' then she'd come off, fair in ecstasy. And then she'd say: That was lovely! Gradually I got sick of it: and she got worse. She sort of got harder and harder to bring off, and she'd sort of tear at me down there, as if it was a beak tearing at me. By God, you think a woman's soft down there, like a fig. But I tell you the old rampers have beaks between their legs, and they tear at you with it till you're sick. Self! Self! Self! all self! tearing and shouting! They talk about men's selfishness, but I doubt if it can ever touch a woman's blind beakishness, once she's gone that way. Like an old trull! And she couldn't help it. I told her about it, I told her how I hated it. And she'd even try. She'd try to lie still and let me work the business. She'd try. But it was no good. She got no feeling off it, from my working. She had to work the thing herself, grind her own coffee. And it came back on her like a raving necessity, she had to let herself go, and tear, tear, tear, as if she had no sensation in her except in the top of her beak, the very outside top tip, that rubbed and tore. That's how old whores used to be, so men used to say. It was a low kind of self-will in her, a raving sort of self-will: like in a woman who drinks. Well in the end I couldn't stand it. We slept apart. She herself had started it, in her bouts when she wanted to be clear of me, when she said I bossed her. She had started having a room for herself. But the time came when I wouldn't have her coming to my room. I wouldn't.

`I hated it. And she hated me. My God, how she hated me before that child was born! I often think she conceived it out of hate. Anyhow, after the child was born I left her alone. And then came the war, and I joined up. And I didn't come back till I knew she was with that fellow at Stacks Gate.

He broke off, pale in the face.

`And what is the man at Stacks Gate like?' asked Connie.

`A big baby sort of fellow, very low-mouthed. She bullies him, and they both drink.'

`My word, if she came back!'

`My God, yes! I should just go, disappear again.'

There was a silence. The pasteboard in the fire had turned to grey ash.

`So when you did get a woman who wanted you,' said Connie, `you got a bit too much of a good thing.'

`Ay! Seems so! Yet even then I'd rather have her than the never-never ones: the white love of my youth, and that other poison-smelling lily, and the rest.'

`What about the rest?' said Connie.

`The rest? There is no rest. Only to my experience the mass of women are like this: most of them want a man, but don't want the sex, but they put up with it, as part of the bargain. The more old-fashioned sort just lie there like nothing and let you go ahead. They don't mind afterwards: then they like you. But the actual thing itself is nothing to them, a bit distasteful. Add most men like it that way. I hate it. But the sly sort of women who are like that pretend they're not. They pretend they're passionate and have thrills. But it's all cockaloopy. They make it up. Then there's the ones that love everything, every kind of feeling and cuddling and going off, every kind except the natural one. They always make you go off when you're not in the only place you should be, when you go off.---Then there's the hard sort, that are the devil to bring off at all, and bring themselves off, like my wife. They want to be the active party.---Then there's the sort that's just dead inside: but dead: and they know it. Then there's the sort that puts you out before you really "come", and go on writhing their loins till they bring themselves off against your thighs. But they're mostly the Lesbian sort. It's astonishing how Lesbian women are, consciously or unconsciously. Seems to me they're nearly all Lesbian.'

`And do you mind?' asked Connie.

`I could kill them. When I'm with a woman who's really Lesbian, I fairly howl in my soul, wanting to kill her.'

`And what do you do?'

`Just go away as fast as I can.'

`But do you think Lesbian women any worse than homosexual men?'

`I do! Because I've suffered more from them. In the abstract, I've no idea. When I get with a Lesbian woman, whether she knows she's one or not, I see red. No, no! But I wanted to have nothing to do with any woman any more. I wanted to keep to myself: keep my privacy and my decency.'

He looked pale, and his brows were sombre.

`And were you sorry when I came along?' she asked.

`I was sorry and I was glad.'

`And what are you now?'

`I'm sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness and recrimination that's bound to come, sooner or later. That's when my blood sinks, and I'm low. But when my blood comes up, I'm glad. I'm even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real sex left: never a woman who'd really "come" naturally with a man: except black women, and somehow, well, we're white men: and they're a bit like mud.'

`And now, are you glad of me?' she asked.

`Yes! When I can forget the rest. When I can't forget the rest, I want to get under the table and die.'

`Why under the table?'

`Why?' he laughed. `Hide, I suppose. Baby!'

`You do seem to have had awful experiences of women,' she said.

`You see, I couldn't fool myself. That's where most men manage. They take an attitude, and accept a lie. I could never fool myself. I knew what I wanted with a woman, and I could never say I'd got it when I hadn't.'

`But have you got it now?'

`Looks as if I might have.'

`Then why are you so pale and gloomy?'

`Bellyful of remembering: and perhaps afraid of myself.'

She sat in silence. It was growing late.

`And do you think it's important, a man and a woman?' she asked him.

`For me it is. For me it's the core of my life: if I have a right relation with a woman.'

`And if you didn't get it?'

`Then I'd have to do without.'

Again she pondered, before she asked:

`And do you think you've always been right with women?'

`God, no! I let my wife get to what she was: my fault a good deal. I spoilt her. And I'm very mistrustful. You'll have to expect it. It takes a lot to make me trust anybody, inwardly. So perhaps I'm a fraud too. I mistrust. And tenderness is not to be mistaken.'

She looked at him.

`You don't mistrust with your body, when your blood comes up,' she said. `You don't mistrust then, do you?'

`No, alas! That's how I've got into all the trouble. And that's why my mind mistrusts so thoroughly.'

`Let your mind mistrust. What does it matter!'

The dog sighed with discomfort on the mat. The ash-clogged fire sank.

`We are a couple of battered warriors,' said Connie.

`Are you battered too?' he laughed. `And here we are returning to the fray!'

`Yes! I feel really frightened.'

`Ay!'

He got up, and put her shoes to dry, and wiped his own and set them near the fire. In the morning he would grease them. He poked the ash of pasteboard as much as possible out of the fire. `Even burnt, it's filthy,' he said. Then he brought sticks and put them on the hob for the morning. Then he went out awhile with the dog.

When he came back, Connie said:

`I want to go out too, for a minute.'

She went alone into the darkness. There were stars overhead. She could smell flowers on the night air. And she could feel her wet shoes getting wetter again. But she felt like going away, right away from him and everybody.

It was chilly. She shuddered, and returned to the house. He was sitting in front of the low fire.

`Ugh! Cold!' she shuddered.

He put the sticks on the fire, and fetched more, till they had a good crackling chimneyful of blaze. The rippling running yellow flame made them both happy, warmed their faces and their souls.

`Never mind!' she said, taking his hand as he sat silent and remote. `One does one's best.'

`Ay!' He sighed, with a twist of a smile.

She slipped over to him, and into his arms, as he sat there before the fire.

`Forget then!' she whispered. `Forget!'

He held her close, in the running warmth of the fire. The flame itself was like a forgetting. And her soft, warm, ripe weight! Slowly his blood turned, and began to ebb back into strength and reckless vigour again.

`And perhaps the women really wanted to be there and love you properly, only perhaps they couldn't. Perhaps it wasn't all their fault,' she said.

`I know it. Do you think I don't know what a broken-backed snake that's been trodden on I was myself!'

She clung to him suddenly. She had not wanted to start all this again. Yet some perversity had made her.

`But you're not now,' she said. `You're not that now: a broken-backed snake that's been trodden on.'

`I don't know what I am. There's black days ahead.'

`No!' she protested, clinging to him. `Why? Why?'

`There's black days coming for us all and for everybody,' he repeated with a prophetic gloom.

`No! You're not to say it!'

He was silent. But she could feel the black void of despair inside him. That was the death of all desire, the death of all love: this despair that was like the dark cave inside the men, in which their spirit was lost.

`And you talk so coldly about sex,' she said. `You talk as if you had only wanted your own pleasure and satisfaction.'

She was protesting nervously against him.

`Nay!' he said. `I wanted to have my pleasure and satisfaction of a woman, and I never got it: because I could never get my pleasure and satisfaction of her unless she got hers of me at the same time. And it never happened. It takes two.'

`But you never believed in your women. You don't even believe really in me,' she said.

`I don't know what believing in a woman means.'

`That's it, you see!'

She still was curled on his lap. But his spirit was grey and absent, he was not there for her. And everything she said drove him further.

`But what do you believe in?' she insisted.

`I don't know.'

`Nothing, like all the men I've ever known,' she said.

They were both silent. Then he roused himself and said:

`Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I believe especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm-heartedly, everything would come all right. It's all this cold-hearted fucking that is death and idiocy.'

`But you don't fuck me cold-heartedly,' she protested.

`I don't want to fuck you at all. My heart's as cold as cold potatoes just now.'

`Oh!' she said, kissing him mockingly. `Let's have them sautées.' He laughed, and sat erect.

`It's a fact!' he said. `Anything for a bit of warm-heartedness. But the women don't like it. Even you don't really like it. You like good, sharp, piercing cold-hearted fucking, and then pretending it's all sugar. Where's your tenderness for me? You're as suspicious of me as a cat is of a dog. I tell you it takes two even to be tender and warm-hearted. You love fucking all right: but you want it to be called something grand and mysterious, just to flatter your own self-importance. Your own self-importance is more to you, fifty times more, than any man, or being together with a man.'

`But that's what I'd say of you. Your own self-importance is everything to you.'

`Ay! Very well then!' he said, moving as if he wanted to rise. `Let's keep apart then. I'd rather die than do any more cold-hearted fucking.'

She slid away from him, and he stood up.

`And do you think I want it?' she said.

`I hope you don't,' he replied. `But anyhow, you go to bed an' I'll sleep down here.'

She looked at him. He was pale, his brows were sullen, he was as distant in recoil as the cold pole. Men were all alike.

`I can't go home till morning,' she said.

`No! Go to bed. It's a quarter to one.'

`I certainly won't,' she said.

He went across and picked up his boots.

`Then I'll go out!' he said.

He began to put on his boots. She stared at him.

`Wait!' she faltered. `Wait! What's come between us?'

He was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments passed. A dimness came over her, like a swoon. All her consciousness died, and she stood there wide-eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing nothing any more.

He looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide-eyed and lost. And as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body, which somehow felt hurt right through. And there he held her, and there she remained.

Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under the clothing to where she was smooth and warm.

`Ma lass!' he murmured. `Ma little lass! Dunna let's light! Dunna let's niver light! I love thee an' th' touch on thee. Dunna argue wi' me! Dunna! Dunna! Dunna! Let's be together.'

She lifted her face and looked at him.

`Don't be upset,' she said steadily. `It's no good being upset. Do you really want to be together with me?'

She looked with wide, steady eyes into his face. He stopped, and went suddenly still, turning his face aside. All his body went perfectly still, but did not withdraw.

Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, with his odd, faintly mocking grin, saying: `Ay-ay! Let's be together on oath.'

`But really?' she said, her eyes filling with tears. `Ay really! Heart an' belly an' cock.'

He still smiled faintly down at her, with the flicker of irony in his eyes, and a touch of bitterness.

She was silently weeping, and he lay with her and went into her there on the hearthrug, and so they gained a measure of equanimity. And then they went quickly to bed, for it was growing chill, and they had tired each other out. And she nestled up to him, feeling small and enfolded, and they both went to sleep at once, fast in one sleep. And so they lay and never moved, till the sun rose over the wood and day was beginning.

Then he woke up and looked at the light. The curtains were drawn. He listened to the loud wild calling of blackbirds and thrushes in the wood. It would be a brilliant morning, about half past five, his hour for rising. He had slept so fast! It was such a new day! The woman was still curled asleep and tender. His hand moved on her, and she opened her blue wondering eyes, smiling unconsciously into his face.

`Are you awake?' she said to him.

He was looking into her eyes. He smiled, and kissed her. And suddenly she roused and sat up.

`Fancy that I am here!' she said.

She looked round the whitewashed little bedroom with its sloping ceiling and gable window where the white curtains were closed. The room was bare save for a little yellow-painted chest of drawers, and a chair: and the smallish white bed in which she lay with him.

`Fancy that we are here!' she said, looking down at him. He was lying watching her, stroking her breasts with his fingers, under the thin nightdress. When he was warm and smoothed out, he looked young and handsome. His eyes could look so warm. And she was fresh and young like a flower.

`I want to take this off!' she said, gathering the thin batiste nightdress and pulling it over her head. She sat there with bare shoulders and longish breasts faintly golden. He loved to make her breasts swing softly, like bells.

`You must take off your pyjamas too,' she said.

`Eh, nay!'

`Yes! Yes!' she commanded.

And he took off his old cotton pyjama-jacket, and pushed down the trousers. Save for his hands and wrists and face and neck he was white as milk, with fine slender muscular flesh. To Connie he was suddenly piercingly beautiful again, as when she had seen him that afternoon washing himself.

Gold of sunshine touched the closed white curtain. She felt it wanted to come in.

`Oh, do let's draw the curtains! The birds are singing so! Do let the sun in,' she said.

He slipped out of bed with his back to her, naked and white and thin, and went to the window, stooping a little, drawing the curtains and looking out for a moment. The back was white and fine, the small buttocks beautiful with an exquisite, delicate manliness, the back of the neck ruddy and delicate and yet strong.

There was an inward, not an outward strength in the delicate fine body.

`But you are beautiful!' she said. `So pure and fine! Come!' She held her arms out.

He was ashamed to turn to her, because of his aroused nakedness.

He caught his shirt off the floor, and held it to him, coming to her.

`No!' she said still holding out her beautiful slim arms from her dropping breasts. `Let me see you!'

He dropped the shirt and stood still looking towards her. The sun through the low window sent in a beam that lit up his thighs and slim belly and the erect phallos rising darkish and hot-looking from the little cloud of vivid gold-red hair. She was startled and afraid.

`How strange!' she said slowly. `How strange he stands there! So big! and so dark and cock-sure! Is he like that?'

The man looked down the front of his slender white body, and laughed. Between the slim breasts the hair was dark, almost black. But at the root of the belly, where the phallos rose thick and arching, it was gold-red, vivid in a little cloud.

`So proud!' she murmured, uneasy. `And so lordly! Now I know why men are so overbearing! But he's lovely, really. Like another being! A bit terrifying! But lovely really! And he comes to me!---' She caught her lower lip between her teeth, in fear and excitement.

The man looked down in silence at the tense phallos, that did not change.---`Ay!' he said at last, in a little voice. `Ay ma lad! tha're theer right enough. Yi, tha mun rear thy head! Theer on thy own, eh? an' ta'es no count O' nob'dy! Tha ma'es nowt O' me, John Thomas. Art boss? of me? Eh well, tha're more cocky than me, an' tha says less. John Thomas! Dost want her? Dost want my lady Jane? Tha's dipped me in again, tha hast. Ay, an' tha comes up smilin'.---Ax 'er then! Ax lady Jane! Say: Lift up your heads, O ye gates, that the king of glory may come in. Ay, th' cheek on thee! Cunt, that's what tha're after. Tell lady Jane tha wants cunt. John Thomas, an' th' cunt O' lady Jane!---'

`Oh, don't tease him,' said Connie, crawling on her knees on the bed towards him and putting her arms round his white slender loins, and drawing him to her so that her hanging, swinging breasts touched the tip of the stirring, erect phallos, and caught the drop of moisture. She held the man fast.

`Lie down!' he said. `Lie down! Let me come!' He was in a hurry now.

And afterwards, when they had been quite still, the woman had to uncover the man again, to look at the mystery of the phallos.

`And now he's tiny, and soft like a little bud of life!' she said, taking the soft small penis in her hand. `Isn't he somehow lovely! so on his own, so strange! And so innocent! And he comes so far into me! You must never insult him, you know. He's mine too. He's not only yours. He's mine! And so lovely and innocent!' And she held the penis soft in her hand.

He laughed.

`Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love,' he said.

`Of course!' she said. `Even when he's soft and little I feel my heart simply tied to him. And how lovely your hair is here! quite, quite different!'

`That's John Thomas's hair, not mine!' he said.

`John Thomas! John Thomas!' and she quickly kissed the soft penis, that was beginning to stir again.

`Ay!' said the man, stretching his body almost painfully. `He's got his root in my soul, has that gentleman! An' sometimes I don' know what ter do wi' him. Ay, he's got a will of his own, an' it's hard to suit him. Yet I wouldn't have him killed.'

`No wonder men have always been afraid of him!' she said. `He's rather terrible.'

The quiver was going through the man's body, as the stream of consciousness again changed its direction, turning downwards. And he was helpless, as the penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious towering fashion. The woman too trembled a little as she watched.

`There! Take him then! He's thine,' said the man.

And she quivered, and her own mind melted out. Sharp soft waves of unspeakable pleasure washed over her as he entered her, and started the curious molten thrilling that spread and spread till she was carried away with the last, blind flush of extremity.

He heard the distant hooters of Stacks Gate for seven o'clock. It was Monday morning. He shivered a little, and with his face between her breasts pressed her soft breasts up over his ears, to deafen him.

She had not even heard the hooters. She lay perfectly still, her soul washed transparent.

`You must get up, mustn't you?' he muttered.

`What time?' came her colourless voice.

`Seven-o'clock blowers a bit sin'.'

`I suppose I must.'

She was resenting as she always did, the compulsion from outside.

He sat up and looked blankly out of the window. `You do love me, don't you?' she asked calmly. He looked down at her.

`Tha knows what tha knows. What dost ax for!' he said, a little fretfully.

`I want you to keep me, not to let me go,' she said.

His eyes seemed full of a warm, soft darkness that could not think.

`When? Now?'

`Now in your heart. Then I want to come and live with you, always, soon.'

He sat naked on the bed, with his head dropped, unable to think.

`Don't you want it?' she asked.

`Ay!' he said.

Then with the same eyes darkened with another flame of consciousness, almost like sleep, he looked at her.

`Dunna ax me nowt now,' he said. `Let me be. I like thee. I luv thee when tha lies theer. A woman's a lovely thing when 'er's deep ter fuck, and cunt's good. Ah luv thee, thy legs, an' th' shape on thee, an' th' womanness on thee. Ah luv th' womanness on thee. Ah luv thee wi' my bas an' wi' my heart. But dunna ax me nowt. Dunna ma'e me say nowt. Let me stop as I am while I can. Tha can ax me iverything after. Now let me be, let me be!'

And softly, he laid his hand over her mound of Venus, on the soft brown maiden-hair, and himself-sat still and naked on the bed, his face motionless in physical abstraction, almost like the face of Buddha. Motionless, and in the invisible flame of another consciousness, he sat with his hand on her, and waited for the turn.

After a while, he reached for his shirt and put it on, dressed himself swiftly in silence, looked at her once as she still lay naked and faintly golden like a Gloire de Dijon rose on the bed, and was gone. She heard him downstairs opening the door.

And still she lay musing, musing. It was very hard to go: to go out of his arms. He called from the foot of the stairs: `Half past seven!' She sighed, and got out of bed. The bare little room! Nothing in it at all but the small chest of drawers and the smallish bed. But the board floor was scrubbed clean. And in the corner by the window gable was a shelf with some books, and some from a circulating library. She looked. There were books about Bolshevist Russia, books of travel, a volume about the atom and the electron, another about the composition of the earth's core, and the causes of earthquakes: then a few novels: then three books on India. So! He was a reader after all.

The sun fell on her naked limbs through the gable window. Outside she saw the dog Flossie roaming round. The hazel-brake was misted with green, and dark-green dogs-mercury under. It was a clear clean morning with birds flying and triumphantly singing. If only she could stay! If only there weren't the other ghastly world of smoke and iron! If only he would make her a world.

She came downstairs, down the steep, narrow wooden stairs. Still she would be content with this little house, if only it were in a world of its own.

He was washed and fresh, and the fire was burning. `Will you eat anything?' he said.

`No! Only lend me a comb.'

She followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair before the handbreadth of mirror by the back door. Then she was ready to go.

She stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy flowers, the grey bed of pinks in bud already.

`I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear,' she said, `and live with you here.'

`It won't disappear,' he said.

They went almost in silence through the lovely dewy wood. But they were together in a world of their own.

It was bitter to her to go on to Wragby.

`I want soon to come and live with you altogether,' she said as she left him.

He smiled, unanswering.

She got home quietly and unremarked, and went up to her room.

当她将到园门边时，她听见开门的声音，那么，他已经在黝黑的林中，并且看见她了。

“你来的早呢。”他在黑暗里说，“一切都好么？”

“一切都顺利。”

她出了园门后，他悄悄地把它关上了。他的手电筒在黑暗的地上照着，照着那些夜里还开着的灰白色的花朵。默默地，他们前后相隔着前进。

“你今天早上的确没有为了那车子受伤么？”她问道。

“没有，没有！”

“你什么时候得的那肺炎病，这病对你的影响怎样？”

“呵，没有怎样！只是心弱一点，肺硬一点罢了，但是肺炎过后总是这样的。”

“你不应该作激烈的操作吧？”

“不要太经常就是。”

她在愤怒的静默中缓缓地前进着。

“你恨克利福吗？”他最后说。

“恨她？不！和他一样的人，我碰过太多了，我再也不自录烦恼地去恨他们了。我早就知道他这一粝的人是我所不喜欢的，所以我却置之漠然了。”

“他是哪一类的人？”

“呵，你比我更知道，他是那种半年轻的有点带女性的没有睾丸的人。”

“没有什么？”

“没有睾丸，男子的睾丸。”

她沉思着。

“难道问题就是这个么？”她有点烦闷地说。

“当一个人蠢笨的时候，你说他没有脑筋，当他卑一下的时候，你说他没有心。当他怯懦的时候、你说他没有脾胃；当他是毫无那种男性的凶猛的火气的时候，你便说他没有塞丸，当他是一种驯服了的人的时候……”

她沉思着。

“克利福是不是驯服的人？她问道。

“是的，驯服了，并且可恶得很，那是和大多数的这类的人一样的，当你反抗他们的时候。”

“你以为你是不驯服的么？”

“也许不太。”

远远地她看见了一点黄色的灯光。她站住了。

“有灯火么？”她说。

“我常常是点一盏灯在家里的。”他说。

她继续和他并行着，但没有触着他。她自己心里奇怪着为什么要同他去。为什么？

他把门开了；两个人进去后，他再把门日住。他想，这好象是个监狱呢！红热的火边，开水壶正在响着；桌子上摆了几个茶杯。

她坐在火边一把木椅子上。从寒冷地外面进来，觉得这儿是温暖的。

“我的鞋都湿了，我脱了罢。”康媳说。

她把她穿的袜的两脚放在光亮的钢火炉围栏上。他到伙食间里找了些食物：面包、牛油和卤奄肉。她热起来了。她把外套脱了。

“你要喝可可呢，茶呢，还是咖啡？”他问道。

“我什么都不想，你自己请吃罢。”

“我不想吃什么，只是要给点东西狗儿吃。”

他在砖上稳重地、恬静地踱来踱去，预备了一碗狗吃的东西。那猎狗不安地举着头望着他。

“来，这儿是你的晚餐；不用装那副怪样子！”他说。

他把碗放在楼梯脚下的地席上后，在靠墙的一把椅子上坐了下去，脱了他的脚绊和鞋那猎狗儿并不吃，却跑到他的旁边坐下，不安地仰望着他。

他缓缓地解地他的脚绊。狗儿越靠近着他。

“您怎么啦、因为这儿有个外人所以这么不安么、呵，女性终是女性！去吃你的晚餐吧。”

他把手放在它的头上，狗儿侧着头依着他。他轻柔地拉着它软滑的长耳朵。

“那边，那边！去吃您的晚餐去！去！”

他把椅子移向楼梯那边，狗儿柔顺地走去吃它的东西。

“你喜欢狗吗。”康妮问道。

“不，不太喜欢。它们太驯服，太缠绵了。”

他脱了脚绊正在脱着笨重的鞋康妮背着火向房子里望着。多么简朴的一间小房子！但是墙上却接着一张令人生怖的结婚放大像，显然是他和他的女人，一个有着刚勇的脸孔的年轻女子。

“那是你么？：康妮问道。

他回过头来望着他头睥那张大像。

“是的！这像是刚要结婚前照的，那时我是二十一岁。”他很冷静地望着那像片。

“我喜欢这个像么。”康妮问道。

“喜欢？不！我从来不喜欢照这像。但是她却非照这像不，可。”

他回转头去把鞋脱着。

“你，既不喜欢，为什么挂在那儿、也许你太太会高夹的到淖借呢。”她说。

他突然苦笑起来望着她，说：

“凡家里值得带走的东西，她都带走了：但是这张像，她却留下了！”

“那么为什么你还留着它呢？为了痴情的缘故么？”

“不，我从来就没有瞧它，我差不多就不知道有它。那是从我们这儿来就挂在那里的。”

“你为什么不把它烧了。”

他又回过头来望着那张像：四面装的是丑陋的褐色油金的框子，上面是个没有胡子的、活泼的、样子很年轻的男子，领于有点过高，和一个身树有点臃肿，穿着一件暗色缎衣，卷发蓬松、刚勇的年轻妇人。

“真的，这主意图不错。”他说。

他把鞋脱了换上了一双托鞋。他站地椅子上，把墙上的像取了下来，带绿色的图纸上，留下了一块苍白色的大方形。

“用不着拂去上面的灰尘上。”他一边说，一边把像架靠着墙根放了。

他到杂物间里取了一把铁锤和钳子回来。坐在刚才坐的那个地位，他开始把那大像架背后的纸撕了，小钉子拔了。他沉静地入神地工作着，这神情是他所特有的。

一会儿，他把钉子都拔了。他把后面的木板取了下来，再把那坚实的硬纸的像怎取了出来，他觉得有趣的望着那张像怎说

“我那时的样子恰是这样：象一个年轻的教士；面她那时的样子也恰是这样：象一只河东狮子，一只奸头奸胸的河东狮子！”

“让我瞧瞧。”康妮说。

真的，他胡子剃得光光的，样子顶整洁，这是二二盯前那些整洁的青年之一。甚至在像上，他的眼眼也是活泼而无畏的。那女人呢，虽然她的颐骨是沉重的。但并不怎样象河东狮子。她有一种令人看了不免感动的什么东西。

“一个人千万不要留这种东西。”康妮说。

“的确；千万不要留；尤其千万不要去照3”

他把像怎在膝上撕碎了；撕成了小片时，他丢进火里去。“只是把火壅塞了。”他说。

他小心地把玻璃和木板拿到楼上去。

他把像架用铁锤打碎了，上面的漆灰飞扬着。然后他把碎片带到杂物间里去。

“这个我明天再烧。”他说：“上面的膏泥灰漆太多了。”

把一切收拾好了后，他坐了下来。

“你爱不爱你的女人。”她问他。

“爱。”他说：“你爱不爱克利福男爵。”

但是她非问个究竟不休。

“但是你想她罢。”她坚持地问。

“想她。”她苦笑着。

“也许你现面还想她罢。”她说

“我！”她睁着眼睛，“呵，不，我一想到她就难受。”他安静地说。

“为什么。”

他只是摇着头。

“那么为什么你不离婚？她总有一天是要回来的。”康妮说。

他尖锐地望着她。

“决没有这事，她恨我比我恨她更甚呢。”

“你看吧，她将来要回来的。”

“决不会，那是没有问题的了！我再也见不到她了。”

“你将要见她的。你们的分居是没有法律根据的，是不是？”

“没有。”

“呵，那么她是要回来的。那时你便不得不收容她。”

他呆呆地望着康妮。然后奇怪的摇着头。

“你的话也许是对的。我回到这个地方来真是笨！但是我那时正在飘零无依，而不得不找个安顿的地方。人再也没有比落魄者更可怜的境遇了。不过你的话是对的。我得把婚离了。各个自由。公务员、法庭、裁判官……我是恨之入骨的。但是我不得不忍受。我要离婚。”

她看见他把牙关啼紧了，她心里暗地里在狂喜着。

“我现在想喝杯茶了。”她说。

他站起来去弄茶。但是他脸上的神态还是没有变。

当他们在桌边就坐后，她问道：

“你为什么和她结婚、她比你低下，波太大对我讲过她的事情，她永不能明白为什么你和她结婚。”

他疑视着她。

“让我告诉你罢。”他说，“我第一个情妇，是当我十六岁的时候开始追逐她的。她是一个奥拉东地方的校长的女儿，长得满好看，还可以说是很美丽，那时人家认为我是个有为的青年。我是雪非尔得公学出身，我懂有法文和德文，我自己也非常自大，她是个浪漫派儿，讨厌一切庸俗的东西。她怂恿我读书吟诗：从某一方面来讲，她使我成了个大丈夫。为了她，我热心地读书，思索。那时我在巴脱来事务所里做事，又苍白又瘦弱，所有读过的东西都使我胡思乱想起来。我和她一切都谈。无所不谈，我们从波斯的巴色波里谈到非洲的唐布都。百里以内再也找不出我们这样有文学修养的一对了。我对她说得出神入化，的确也出神人化。我简直是飘飘欲仙了。并且她崇拜我。可是，草中有伏蛇；那便是性爱的问题。她并没有性感；至少是那应该有的地方她却没有。我一天一天地消一天一天地痴狂。我对她说，我们非成情人不行了。我同平常一样，用言语去把她说服了。于是她委身与我了。我觉得很兴奋，可是她总是没有兴味。她压根儿就不想那个。她只是崇拜我，她只爱听我说话，爱我抱吻她。其余，她就压根儿不想。世上有不少同她一样的女子。我呢，我所想的恰恰是其余的，于是我们闹翻了，我残忍地丢了她。当时，我和另一个少女发生关系，她是个女教员，不久以前日有过一场不体面的事；拼上了一个有妇之夫，差不多把她弄得发狂，她是个温柔的、皮肤嫩自的妇人，年纪比我大点，还会拉四弦琴．她真是个妖精。关于恋爱的东西，她样样喜欢，就是性爱她不喜欢．又妖腐，又缠绵，不知用多少药样来迷你只是是如果迫她进一步到性爱上去，她便要咬牙切齿地馏恨起来，我强迫她屈服．她简直把我恨死了。于是我又失望了。我深恶这种种。我需要的是一个克要我，而又需要‘那个’的女人。

“跟着来自黛·古蒂斯，当我还是孩童的时候，古蒂斯一家就任在我们田邻，所以我很认识他们。他们都是庸欲的人。白黛到波明汉去就个什么事情一据她自己说，是在一个人家里当女伴，但是大家却说她是在一家旅馆里当女仆一类的事情，这且不提，事情是正当我再也受不了刚才说的那个女人的时候，白黛回家来了，风致釉然，穿着人时，带着一种花校招展的光彩，这种肉感的光彩，我们有时是可以从一个女人或一架电车看得见的。我呢，我正在一称失望的、敢作敢为的情境中。我辞了巴脱来的差，因为我觉得干那种事情太不值了．我回到了达娃斯哈来当铁匠头：主要的工作是替巴安铁蹄那是我父亲的职业，我一向是和他在一起的。我喜欢这职业，我喜欢马，我觉得联业正合我的意，于是我不说他们所谓的‘斯文’话了，那便是说，不说那正确的英语，面重新说起土话来了．我不田地在家里续书，但是我打着铁、安着马蹄。我有—头小马和一部自己的汽车，我父亲死后给成留下了三百镑。于是，我和白黛发生了关系，而且我喜欢她的庸俗：我需要她庸俗；我要我自己也庸俗起来。好，我娶她了。起初，她还不坏。其他的、纯洁的、妇人们差不多把我的睾丸都剥夺了，但是白黛在剥一点上却还好，她需要我，而不待人千呼万唤。我满心得意。那正是我所需要的：一个解怜爱的女人。于是我拼命地把她怜爱。我想她有点看不起我，因为我高兴得不可名状，有时还服侍她在床上吃早餐呢！她一切都不管，当我工作回来时，没有一顿象样的晚餐是常有的事，要是我说个不是，她便闹将起来。以毒攻毒，我也不让，她把个茶杯向我头上飞过来。我扼着她了的颈项，把她窒得魂出七窍。如此这般地继续下去。她很傲慢地对待我。事情弄得我要她进，她永不让我，永不，她者是拒绝我，粗野得不成话。她简直使我厌恶极了，使我再也不要她了。那时她却狐狸似地要我了，我只好屈服。我老是迁就。但是当我们干起来时，她却永不和我一块享受，永不！她只是等待，要是我忍过半点钟，她忍得更久。当我完毕了时，那么她便开始干她的，我得在她里面一直等到她完事，嘴里呼号着，全身摆荡着，她下面的那个地方钳紧着，钳紧着，然后失了魉心的舒畅。于是她说：‘好极了！’渐渐地，我觉得讨厌了而她呢，却愈来愈坏，她渐渐地更不容易得到完毕了。她在那下面撕扯着我，仿佛她那儿有个尖喙似地撕扯着我，天哟！人‘家以为女人那下面是柔软得象一颗无花果，但是我告诉你，那些老贱妇的两腿间有个尖喙，直把你撕扯得忍无可忍为止。我！我！我！她们只想着她们自己，撕扯着、呼号着。她们还说男子是自私的；但是男于的自私，较之这种一旦成了习惯后的妇人的盲目的撕扯，恐有天壤之别罢。好象个老娼妓！她却是无可奈何的。我对她说起过，我告诉她我多么厌恶那样。而她却也情意试一试改过来。她评着静静地躺着，一切工作都让我。她试着；但是那是没有用的。我的工作，她么点儿感觉都没有。她得自己动作，磨她自己的咖啡，这一来她又得开始那一套了。她非要她自己放肆不可，扯着，撕着，扯着，撕着，仿佛她身上只有她那尖喙上有感觉，只有那磨擦着撕扯着的尖喙的顶上有感觉。人说，老淫妇便是那样，这是她的一种卑下的固执性。一种嗜酒的妇人的疯狂的固执性。好，到了后来我忍不住了。我们分床睡了，这是她自己开始的，当她到了脾气发作的时候，而想不要我的时候，她说我眶待她，于是她要自己一个人一间卧室。但是后来，我不许她进我房子里来的日子到了，我再也不要她了。

“我恨这一切。她呢，她也恨我，我的上帝，那孩子出世以前她多么恨我！我常想这孩子是她在恨中得的胎。虽然，孩子生后，我便不理她了，以后大战来了。我入了伍，我直至探明她和史行业门的一个家伙拼上了才回来的。”

他停住了。脸孔是苍白的。

“史德门的那个人是怎样的一上人？”康妮问道。

“一个有点孩子样的大汉字，满口秽言的。她凌眶他，并且他们俩口儿都喝酒。”

“唉！假如她回来的话！”

“呵，我的上帝！那我便得走，我介得重新隐没！”

两人静默了一会，火上的像片已经烧成灰烬了。

“这样看来。”康妮说：“你真得到了需要你的妇人后，不久你便觉得腻了。”

“是的，大概是的！虽然是这样，我却宁愿白黛面不愿那些‘水不永不’的女子；那种我年青时候的‘纯洁’的爱人，那种有毒气的百合花，和基耸。”

“其他？”

“其他？没有什么其他的，不过，经验告诉我，大部分的妇人都是这样；她们需要一个男子，但是不要性爱。她们忍受着，仿佛那是恶命中不得不忍受的事。再旧式一点的，她们便象木头似的，躺在那儿任你冲撞事后她们也不关心。她们喜欢你，但那件事的本身，对她们是没有什么的。只是有点无味罢了。大多数的男子倒喜欢这样，我却讨厌，但是有一种奸诈的妇人，她们虽然也是一样，却假装不一样，她们表面上似乎狂热，似乎消魂不禁，但实际上只是一套把戏，只是装模作样罢了……其次是那些什么都爱的，什么样的感觉。什么样的抚爱，什么样的滋味，无所不爱，就是不爱自然的那一种。她们常常使你在唯一享受的地方以处的地方去享受。……还有是一种坚硬的女子。想使她们享受真是上天般难，她们是要自力享受的，正如我的女人一样，她们要站在主动者的地位。……还有是里面简直了的，全死了的，她们自己也知道，科学还有是那种没有到期就使你草率了事，然后她们继续着靠紧你的大腿，簸动着她们的腰，直至她们自己完毕为止的。她们大多数都是搞同性恋式的，世上多少妇人，有意识的，或无意识地，都是属于搞同性恋式的，真令人惊异，我觉得她们差不多全部是这一类。”

“你觉得厌恶么？”康妮问道。

“我觉得她们都该杀！当我碰到一个真正的搞同性恋式的妇人时，我心里咆哮着，想把她杀死。”

“你怎么对付呢？”

“走开，愈快愈好。”

“但是你以为搞同性恋式的妇人，比有同性爱癖的男子更要不得么？”

“是的，我以为更要不得。因为她们给我的苦头更大。在理论上，我倒不说，当我遇到一个搞同性恋式的妇人时，不论她自己知道不知道，我便要发狂，不，不，我再也不想和任何妇人有什么来往了，我要自己孤守着，我要守着我的孤独和我的高洁。”

他脸色苍白地理着眉头。

“你遇着我了，你觉得懊悔么？”她问道。

“我懊悔而又高兴。”

“现在呢？”

“现在，我忧惧外边的不可避免的种种纠纷，种种诽谤，种种丑恶，这种种迟早是要来到的，当我气馁的时候，我是沮丧的，但是当我气盛的时候，我又觉得快乐了。甚至觉得胜利了。我没有遇到你以前，正是我日见苦恼的时候，我想人世间再也没有真天上的性爱了。再也没有真正地、自然地和一个男子在肉感上共鸣的妇人了。有的只是黑种女子……不过我们是白人，黑人却有点象一团泥。”

“现在呢，你高兴我么？”她问道。

“是的！当我能忘掉其作瓣时候，当我不能忘掉其作田时候，我便想躲在桌子下面去死。”

“为什么在桌子下面呢？”

“为什么？”他笑了起来，“去捉迷藏呢，孩子！”

“你对于女子的经验，似乎真的太坏了。”她说。

“那是因为我不能自欺的缘故，在这一点上，多数的男子却能做到。他们采择一种态度，接受欺骗。我呢，我决不能自欺，我知道我所求于一个女子的是什么，如果没有得到，我决不能说我得到了。”

“但是你现在得到了么？”

“象是得到了。”

“那么你为什么这样苍白而抑郁？”

“往事太多了，或者也因为我怕自己。”

她静默的坐着，夜渐渐深了。

“你觉得男女之事是重要的么？”她问道。

“在我。那是重要的，在我，如果我能够和一个女子发生适当的关系，那是我生命中最重要的事。”

“假如你不能呢？

“那么我便只好没有。”

她沉思了一下，然后问道：

“你相信你一向对待女子没有过错误的地方么？”

“天哟，不！我的女人弄到那步田地，大半是我的错，是我使她变坏的，我是个很狐疑的人，你将来便会晓得的，要我对谁深信起来，那是件难事，晤，也许我自己也是个令人失望的人，我狐疑着。真正的温情却是不客人误认的。”

她望着他。

“当你血气沸腾的时候，你不狐疑你的肉体吧。”她说：“那时你不狐疑吧，是不是？”

“唉，是的！我的一切烦恼就是那样得来的，这也便是我的心所以如此狐疑的缘故。”

“让你的心狐疑去吧，这有什么要紧！”

狗儿不安地在席了叹了气，炉火给灰炉掩着，弱了起来。

“我们是一对被打败了的战士。”康妮说。

“你也被打败了么？”他笑着说：“现在我们又上前线再战去了！”

“是的！我真有时怕。”

“是么！”

他站起来，把康妮的鞋拿去烘干，把他自己的擦了一擦，也放到火边去，明天早上他将加点油去把它们擦亮了，他搅着火，把纸灰搅了下去，“甚至烧化了都肮脏。”他说，接着他拿了一些柴枝放在火架上，预备早上烧的，然后他带了狗儿出去了一会。

当他回来时，康妮说：

“我也要出去一会儿。”

她独自的到黑暗的外边去，那是个繁星之夜，在夜气里，她闻着花香，她觉得她温的鞍更加湿了，但是她觉得想走开，一直的走开，远离着他，远离着一切的人。

外面是冷的。她战栗着回到屋里去，他正坐在半熄了的炉火面前。

“呵，冷呀！”她战栗着。他添了些柴枝，再去取了些柴枝，直至一炉子满是熊熊的火焰，发着劈拍声，跳跃着飞腾着的火焰，使他们俩都快活起来，温暖着他们的脸和他们的灵魂。

看见他静默地、疏远地坐着，她握着了他的手：“不要愁，一个人只好尽力做去。”

“是的！”他叹了口气，苦笑着。

她挨近着他，依在他的两臂里。

“忘掉它吧！”她细声说：“忘掉它罢！”

在火的奔流的热力中，他抱紧着她。火焰本身就象一种忘记。还有她的柔媚的、温热的、成熟的重量！慢慢地，他的血流转变了。开始有力量，有生气，而且猛勇了。

“也许那些女人在心底里是想亲近你，并且好好地爱你的，不过她们也许不能。也许那不全是她们的过失罢。”她说。

“我知道，我自己曾经是一条被蹂躏的断了脊骨的蛇，你以为我不知道么？”

她突然紧紧地依着他。她本来不愿再提起这一切了；但是一种恶作剧的念头在推着她。

“但是你现在不是那样了。”她说：“你再也不是一种被蹂躏的断了脊骨的蛇了。”

“我不知道现在我怎样，前头还有黑暗的日子里。”

“不！”她紧依着他抗议说，“为什么，为什么？”

“我们的一切，我们每个人，都将有黑暗的日子来到。”他用—种预言家的忧郁口气重新说道。

“不！不要说这种话！”