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 of the past were--the lovely
accomplished past--this house, so still and golden, the park slumbering
its centuries of peace. And then, what a snare and a delusion, this
beauty of static things--what a horrible, dead prison Breadalby really
was, what an intolerable confinement, the peace! Yet it was better than
the sordid scrambling conflict of the present. If only one might create
the future after one's own heart--for a little pure truth, a little
unflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried out
ceaselessly.
'I can't see what you will leave me at all, to be interested in,' came
Gerald's voice from the lower room. 'Neither the Pussums, nor the
mines, nor anything else.'
'You be interested in what you can, Gerald. Only I'm not interested
myself,' said Birkin.
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