quite account for it.’

‘You don’t care if you die or not?’ asked Birkin.

Gerald looked at him with eyes blue as the blue-fibred steel of a weapon. He felt awkward, but indifferent. As a matter of fact, he did care terribly, with a great fear.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to die, why should I? But I never trouble. The question doesn’t seem to be on the carpet for me at all. It doesn’t interest me, you know.’

‘TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME,’ quoted Birkin, adding — ’No, death doesn’t really seem the point any more. It curiously doesn’t concern one. It’s like an ordinary tomorrow.’