“Pussum,” said Halliday, “pour out the tea.”
She did not move.
“Won’t you do it?” Halliday repeated, in a state of nervous apprehension.
“I’ve not come back here as it was before,” she said. “I only came because the others wanted me to, not for your sake.”
“My dear Pussum, you know you are your own mistress. I don’t want you to do anything but use the flat for your own convenience—you know it, I’ve told you so many times.”
She did not reply, but silently, reservedly reached for the tea-pot. They all sat round and drank tea. Gerald could feel the electric connection between him and her so strongly, as she sat there quiet and withheld, that another set of conditions altogether had come to pass. Her silence and her immutability perplexed him. How was he going to come to her? And yet he felt it quite inevitable. He trusted completely to the current that held them. His perplexity was only superficial, new conditions reigned, the old were surpassed; here one did as one was possessed to do, no matter what it was.
Birkin rose. It was nearly one o’clock.
“I’m going to bed,” he said. “Gerald, I’ll ring you up in the morning at your place or you ring me up here.”
“Right,” said Gerald, and Birkin went out.
When he was well gone, Halliday said in a stimulated voice, to Gerald: