es!' Gerald repeated. Then he put his
hand again affectionately on Birkin's shoulder. 'God, you've got such a
telling way of putting things, Rupert, you have.'

Birkin's heart sank. He was irritated and weary of having a telling way
of putting things.

'Won't you leave it? Come over to my place'--he urged as one urges a
drunken man.

'No,' said Gerald coaxingly, his arm across the other man's shoulder.
'Thanks very much, Rupert--I shall be glad to come tomorrow, if that'll
do. You understand, don't you? I want to see this job through. But I'll
come tomorrow, right enough. Oh, I'd rather come and have a chat with
you than--than do anything else, I verily believe. Yes, I would. You
mean a lot to me, Rupert, more than you know.'

'What do I mean, more than I know?' asked Birkin irritably. He was
acutely aware of Gerald's hand on his shoulder. And he did not want
this altercation. He wanted the other man to come out of the ugly
misery.

'I'll tell you another time,' said Gerald coaxingly.

'Come along with me now--I want you to come,' said Birkin.

There was a pause, intense and real. Birkin wondered why his own heart
beat so heavily. Then Gerald's fingers gripped hard and communicative
into Birkin's shoulder, as he said:

'No, I'll see this job through, Rupert. Thank you--I know what you
mean. We're all right, you know, you and me.'

'I may be all right, but I'm sure you're not, mucking about here,' said
Birkin. And he went away.

The bodies of the dead were not recovered till towards dawn. Diana had
her arms tight round the neck of the young man, choking him.

'She killed him,' said Gerald.

The moon sloped down the sky and sank at last. The lake was sunk to
quarter size, it had horrible raw banks of clay, that smelled of raw
rottenish water. Dawn roused faintly behind the eastern hill. The water
still boomed through the sluice.

As the birds were whistling for the first morning, and the hills at the
back of the desolate lake stood radiant with the new mists, there was a
straggling procession up to Shortlands, men bearing the bodies on a
stretcher, Gerald going beside them, the two grey-bearded fathers
following in silence. Indoors the family was all sitting up, waiting.
Somebody must go to tell the mother, in her room. The doctor in secret
struggled to bring back his son, till he himself was exhausted.

Over all the outlying district was a hush of dreadful excitement on
that Sunday morning. The colliery