“Yes,” Birkin answered obstinately.
“And no,” added Gerald. “No, no, no, my boy.”
There was a silence between them, and a strange tension of hostility. They always kept a gap, a distance between them, they wanted always to be free each of the other. Yet there was a curious heart-straining towards each other.
“Salvator femininus,” said Gerald, satirically.
“Why not?” said Birkin.
“No reason at all,” said Gerald, “if it really works. But whom will you marry?”
“A woman,” said Birkin.
“Good,” said Gerald.
Birkin and Gerald were the last to come down to breakfast. Hermione liked everybody to be early. She suffered when she felt her day was diminished, she felt she had missed her life. She seemed to grip the hours by the throat, to force her life from them. She was rather pale and ghastly, as if left behind, in the morning. Yet she had her power, her will was strangely pervasive. With the entrance of the two young men a sudden tension was felt.
She lifted her face, and said, in her amused sing-song: