Gerald had been on the qui vive, as awaiting his fate. Now he drew back in his chair.

`No,' he said, `and neither do I, and neither do I.'

`We are different, you and I,' said Birkin. `I can't tell your life.'

`No,' said Gerald, `no more can I. But I tell you -- I begin to doubt it!'

`That you will ever love a woman?'

`Well -- yes -- what you would truly call love --'

`You doubt it?'

`Well -- I begin to.'

There was a long pause.

`Life has all kinds of things,' said Birkin. `There isn't only one road.'

`Yes, I believe that too. I believe it. And mind you, I don't care how it is with me -- I don't care how it is -- so long as I don't feel --' he paused, and a blank, barren look passed over his face, to express his feeling -- `so long as I feel I've lived, somehow -- and I don't care how it is -- but I want to feel that --'

`Fulfilled,' said Birkin.

`We-ell, perhaps it is fulfilled; I don't use the same words as you.'

`It is the same.'