Birkin watched him narrowly. He saw the perfect good-humoured callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in Gerald, glistening through the plausible ethics of productivity.

‘Gerald,’ he said, ‘I rather hate you.’

‘I know you do,’ said Gerald. ‘Why do you?’

Birkin mused inscrutably for some minutes.

‘I should like to know if you are conscious of hating me,’ he said at last. ‘Do you ever consciously detest me — hate me with mystic hate? There are odd moments when I hate you starrily.’

Gerald was rather taken aback, even a little disconcerted. He did not quite know what to say.