all core of the flame was an unyielding anguish of another
thing. But this also was lost; he only wanted her, with an extreme
desire that seemed inevitable as death, beyond question.

Then, satisfied and shattered, fulfilled and destroyed, he went home
away from her, drifting vaguely through the darkness, lapsed into the
old fire of burning passion. Far away, far away, there seemed to be a
small lament in the darkness. But what did it matter? What did it
matter, what did anything matter save this ultimate and triumphant
experience of physical passion, that had blazed up anew like a new
spell of life. 'I was becoming quite dead-alive, nothing but a
word-bag,' he said in triumph, scorning his other self. Yet somewhere
far off and small, the other hovered.

The men were still dragging the lake when he got back. He stood on the
bank and heard Gerald's voice. The water was still booming in the
night, the moon was fair, the hills beyond were elusive. The lake was
sinking. There came the raw smell of the banks, in the night air.

Up at Shortlands there were lights in the windows, as if nobody had
gone to bed. On the landing-stage was the old doctor, the father of the
young man who was lost. He stood quite silent, waiting. Birkin also
stood and watched, Gerald came up in a boat.

'You still here, Rupert?' he said. 'We can't get them. The bottom
slopes, you know, very steep. The water lies between two very sharp
slopes, with little branch valleys, and God knows where the drift will
take you. It isn't as if it was a level bottom. You never know where
you are, with the dragging.'

'Is there any need for you to be working?' said Birkin. 'Wouldn't it be
much better if you went to bed?'

'To bed! Good God, do you think I should sleep? We'll find 'em, before
I go away from here.'

'But the men would find them just the same without you--why should you
insist?'

Gerald looked up at him. Then he put his hand affectionately on
Birkin's shoulder, saying:

'Don't you bother about me, Rupert. If there's anybody's health to
think about, it's yours, not mine. How do you feel yourself?'

'Very well. But you, you spoil your own chance of life--you waste your
best self.'

Gerald was silent for a moment. Then he said:

'Waste it? What else is there to do with it?'

'But leave this, won't you? You force yourself into horrors, and put a
mill-stone of beastly memories round your neck. Come away now.'

'A mill-stone of beastly memori