“No!” said Birkin. “You can’t.” There was a strange fluid compulsion in his voice. Gerald was silent in a battle of wills. It was as if he would kill the other man. But Birkin rowed evenly and unswerving, with an inhuman inevitability.
“Why should you interfere?” said Gerald, in hate.
Birkin did not answer. He rowed towards the land. And Gerald sat mute, like a dumb beast, panting, his teeth chattering, his arms inert, his head like a seal’s head.
They came to the landing-stage. Wet and naked-looking, Gerald climbed up the few steps. There stood his father, in the night.
“Father!” he said.
“Yes my boy? Go home and get those things off.”
“We shan’t save them, father,” said Gerald.
“There’s hope yet, my boy.”
“I’m afraid not. There’s no knowing where they are. You can’t find them. And there’s a current, as cold as hell.”
“We’ll let the water out,” said the father. “Go home you and look to yourself. See that he’s looked after, Rupert,” he added in a neutral voice.