Out of the disapproving silence came Berry’s anxious question:

‘You do believe in love then, Tommy, don’t you?’

‘You lovely lad!’ said Tommy. ‘No, my cherub, nine times out of ten, no! Love’s another of those half–witted performances today. Fellows with swaying waists fucking little jazz girls with small boy buttocks, like two collar studs! Do you mean that sort of love? Or the joint–property, make–a–success–of–it, My–husband–my–wife sort of love? No, my fine fellow, I don’t believe in it at all!’

‘But you do believe in something?’

‘Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say ‘‘shit!’’ in front of a lady.’

‘Well, you’ve got them all,’ said Berry.

Tommy Dukes roared with laughter. ‘You angel boy! If only I had! If only I had! No; my heart’s as numb as a potato, my penis droops and never lifts its head up, I dare rather cut him clean off than say ‘‘shit!’’ in front of my mother or my aunt...they are real ladies, mind you; and I’m not really intelligent, I’m only a ‘‘mental–lifer’’. It would be wonderful to be intelligent: then one would be alive in all the parts mentioned and unmentionable. The penis rouses his head and says: How do you do?—to any really intelligent person. Renoir said he painted his pictures with his penis...he did too, lovely pictures! I wish I did something with mine. God! when one can only talk! Another torture added to Hades! And Socrates started it.’

‘There are nice women in the world,’ said Connie, lifting her head up and speaking at last.

The men resented it...she should have pretended to hear nothing. They hated her admitting she had attended so closely to such talk.

‘My God! ‘’ IF THEY BE NOT NICE TO ME WHAT CARE I HOW NICE THEY BE?’’

‘No, it’s hopeless! I just simply can’t vibrate in unison with a woman. There’s no woman I can really want when I’m faced with her, and I’m not going to start forcing myself to it...My God, no! I’ll remain as I am, and lead the mental life. It’s the only honest thing I can do. I can be quite happy TALKING to women; but it’s all pure, hopelessly pure. Hopelessly pure! What do you say, Hildebrand, my chicken?’

‘It’s much less complicated if one stays pure,’ said Berry.

‘Yes, life is all too simple!’

On a frosty morning with a little February sun, Clifford and Connie went for a walk across the park to the wood. That is, Clifford chuffed in his motor–chair, and Connie walked beside him.

The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to it. Round the near horizon went the haze, opalescent with frost and smoke, and on the top lay the small blue sky; so that it was like being inside an enclosure, always inside. Life always a dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.

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