When he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon Gerald's body he wondered, he was surprised. But he sat up, steadying himself with his hand and waiting for his heart to become stiller and less painful. It hurt very much, and took away his consciousness.

Gerald however was still less conscious than Birkin. They waited dimly, in a sort of not-being, for many uncounted, unknown minutes.

`Of course --' panted Gerald, `I didn't have to be rough -- with you -- I had to keep back -- my force --'

Birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind him, outside him, and listened to it. His body was in a trance of exhaustion, his spirit heard thinly. His body could not answer. Only he knew his heart was getting quieter. He was divided entirely between his spirit, which stood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconscious stroke of blood.

`I could have thrown you -- using violence --' panted Gerald. `But you beat me right enough.'

`Yes,' said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in the tension there, `you're much stronger than I -- you could beat me -- easily.'

Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and his blood.

`It surprised me,' panted Gerald, `what strength you've got. Almost supernatural.'

`For a moment,' said Birkin.

He still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit hearing, standing at some distance behind him. It drew nearer however, his spirit. And the violent striking of blood in his chest was sinking quieter, allowing his mind to come back. He realised that he was leaning with all his weight on the soft body of the other man. It startled him, because he thought he had withdrawn. He recovered himself, and sat up. But he was still vague and unestablished. He put out his hand to steady himself. It touched the hand of Gerald, that was lying out on the floor. And Gerald's hand closed warm and sudden over Birkin's, they remained exhausted and breathless, the one hand clasped closely over the other. It was Birkin whose hand, in swift response, had closed in a strong, warm clasp over the hand of the other. Gerald's clasp had been sudden and momentaneous.

The normal consciousness however was returning, ebbing back. Birkin could breathe almost naturally again. Gerald's hand slowly withdrew, Birkin slowly, dazedly rose to his feet and went towards the table. He poured out a whiskey and soda. Gerald also came for a drink.

`It was a real set-to, wasn't it?' said Birkin, looking at Gerald with darkened eyes.

`God, yes,' said Gerald. He looked at the delicate body of the other man, and added: `It wasn't too much for you, was it?'

`No. One ought to wrestle and strive and be physically close. It makes one sane.'

`You do think so?'

`I do. Don't you?'

`Yes,' said Gerald.

There were long spaces of silence between their words. The wrestling had some deep meaning to them -- an unfinished meaning.