Gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were something done specially to please him. Then his face assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly.
“You know,” he said, “I always believed in love—true love. But where does one find it nowadays?”
“I don’t know,” said Birkin.
“Very rarely,” said Gerald. Then, after a pause, “I’ve never felt it myself—not what I should call love. I’ve gone after women—and been keen enough over some of them. But I’ve never felt love. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt as much love for a woman, as I have for you—not love. You understand what I mean?”
“Yes. I’m sure you’ve never loved a woman.”
“You feel that, do you? And do you think I ever shall? You understand what I mean?” He put his hand to his breast, closing his fist there, as if he would draw something out. “I mean that—that I can’t express what it is, but I know it.”
“What is it, then?” asked Birkin.
“You see, I can’t put it into words. I mean, at any rate, something abiding, something that can’t change—”
His eyes were bright and puzzled.
“Now do you think I shall ever feel that for a woman?” he said, anxiously.