'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.' 'Money?' said Birkin. 'She'll get what she wants from Halliday or from
one of her acquaintances.' 'But then,' said Gerald, 'I'd rather give her her dues and settle the
account.' 'She doesn't care.' 'No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one would
rather it were closed.' 'Would you?' said Birkin. He was looking at the white legs of Gerald,
as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. They were
white-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet they
moved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they were
childish.