`I knew her in London,' he replied, `in the Algernon Strange set. She'll know about Pussum and Libidnikov and the rest -- even if she doesn't know them personally. She was never quite that set -- more conventional, in a way. I've known her for two years, I suppose.'
`And she makes money, apart from her teaching?' asked Gerald.
`Some -- irregularly. She can sell her models. She has a certain reclame.'
`How much for?'
`A guinea, ten guineas.'
`And are they good? What are they?'
`I think sometimes they are marvellously good. That is hers, those two wagtails in Hermione's boudoir -- you've seen them -- they are carved in wood and painted.'
`I thought it was savage carving again.'
`No, hers. That's what they are -- animals and birds, sometimes odd small people in everyday dress, really rather wonderful when they come off. They have a sort of funniness that is quite unconscious and subtle.'
`She might be a well-known artist one day?' mused Gerald.
`She might. But I think she won't. She drops her art if anything else catches her. Her contrariness prevents her taking it seriously -- she must never be too serious, she feels she might give herself away. And she won't give herself away -- she's always on the defensive. That's what I can't stand about her type. By the way, how did things go off with Pussum after I left you? I haven't heard anything.'
`Oh, rather disgusting. Halliday turned objectionable, and I only just saved myself from jumping in his stomach, in a real old-fashioned row.'
Birkin was silent.
`Of course,' he said, `Julius is somewhat insane. On the one hand he's had religious mania, and on the other, he is fascinated by obscenity. Either he is a pure servant, washing the feet of Christ, or else he is making obscene drawings of Jesus -- action and reaction -- and between the two, nothing. He is really insane. He wants a pure lily, another girl, with a baby face, on the one hand, and on the other, he must have the Pussum, just to defile himself with her.'
`That's what I can't make out,' said Gerald. `Does he love her, the Pussum, or doesn't he?'
`He neither does nor doesn't. She is the harlot, the actual harlot of adultery to him. And he's got a craving to throw himself into the filth of her. Then he gets up and calls on the name of the lily of purity, the baby- faced girl, and so enjoys himself all round. It's the old story -- action and reaction, and nothing between.'
`I don't know,' said Gerald, after a pause, `that he does insult the Pussum so very much. She strikes me as being rather foul.'
`But I thought you liked her,' exclaimed Birkin. `I always felt fond of her. I never had anything to do with her, personally, that's true.'
`I liked her all right, for a couple of days,' said Gerald. `But a week of her would have turned me over. There's a certain smell about the skin of those women, that in the end is sickening beyond words -- even if you like it at first.'