When he saw Birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile.
“By God, Rupert,” he said, “I’d just come to the conclusion that nothing in the world mattered except somebody to take the edge off one’s being alone: the right somebody.”
The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the other man. It was the pure gleam of relief. His face was pallid and even haggard.
“The right woman, I suppose you mean,” said Birkin spitefully.
“Of course, for choice. Failing that, an amusing man.”
He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the fire.
“What were you doing?” he asked.
“I? Nothing. I’m in a bad way just now, everything’s on edge, and I can neither work nor play. I don’t know whether it’s a sign of old age, I’m sure.”
“You mean you are bored?”
“Bored, I don’t know. I can’t apply myself. And I feel the devil is either very present inside me, or dead.”