She turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of spindleberry from the hedge, and fastening them, with vibrating fingers, in the bosom of her coat.

He stood watching in silence. A wonderful tenderness burned in him, at the sight of her quivering, so sensitive fingers: and at the same time he was full of rage and callousness.

`This is a degrading exhibition,' he said coolly.

`Yes, degrading indeed,' she said. `But more to me than to you.'

`Since you choose to degrade yourself,' he said. Again the flash came over her face, the yellow lights concentrated in her eyes.

`You!' she cried. `You! You truth-lover! You purity-monger! It stinks, your truth and your purity. It stinks of the offal you feed on, you scavenger dog, you eater of corpses. You are foul, foul and you must know it. Your purity, your candour, your goodness -- yes, thank you, we've had some. What you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, that's what you are, obscene and perverse. You, and love! You may well say, you don't want love. No, you want yourself, and dirt, and death -- that's what you want. You are so perverse, so death-eating. And then --'

`There's a bicycle coming,' he said, writhing under her loud denunciation.

She glanced down the road.

`I don't care,' she cried.

Nevertheless she was silent. The cyclist, having heard the voices raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, and at the standing motor-car as he passed.

`-- Afternoon,' he said, cheerfully.

`Good-afternoon,' replied Birkin coldly.

They were silent as the man passed into the distance.

A clearer look had come over Birkin's face. He knew she was in the main right. He knew he was perverse, so spiritual on the one hand, and in some strange way, degraded, on the other. But was she herself any better? Was anybody any better?

`It may all be true, lies and stink and all,' he said. `But Hermione's spiritual intimacy is no rottener than your emotional-jealous intimacy. One can preserve the decencies, even to one's enemies: for one's own sake. Hermione is my enemy -- to her last breath! That's why I must bow her off the field.'

`You! You and your enemies and your bows! A pretty picture you make of yourself. But it takes nobody in but yourself. I jealous! I! What I say,' her voice sprang into flame, `I say because it is true, do you see, because you are you, a foul and false liar, a whited sepulchre. That's why I say it. And you hear it.'

`And be grateful,' he added, with a satirical grimace.

`Yes,' she cried, `and if you have a spark of decency in you, be grateful.'

`Not having a spark of decency, however --' he retorted.

`No,' she cried, `you haven't a spark. And so you can go your way, and I'll go mine. It's no good, not the slightest. So you can leave me now, I don't want to go any further with you -- leave me --'