“How do you know I can’t?”
Gerald meditated for some moments.
“It seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with the Pussums, is to pay them.”
“And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And the right thing for wives: live under the same roof with them. _Integer vitae scelerisque purus_—” said Birkin.
“There’s no need to be nasty about it,” said Gerald.
“It bores me. I’m not interested in your peccadilloes.”
“And I don’t care whether you are or not—I am.”
The morning was again sunny. The maid had been in and brought the water, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin, sitting up in bed, looked lazily and pleasantly out on the park, that was so green and deserted, romantic, belonging to the past. He was thinking how lovely, how sure, how formed, how final all the things