‘Ay,’ she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded profoundly cynical. Birkin felt afraid, as if he dared not realise. And Mrs Crich moved away, forgetting him. But she returned on her traces.

‘I should like him to have a friend,’ she said. ‘He has never had a friend.’

Birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and watching heavily. He could not understand them. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ he said to himself, almost flippantly.

Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was Cain’s cry. And Gerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that he was Cain, either, although he had slain his brother. There was such a thing as pure accident, and the consequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one’s