'I should like him to have a friend,' she said. 'He has never had a
friend.'

Birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and watching
heavily. He could not understand them. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' he
said to himself, almost flippantly.

Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was Cain's cry. And
Gerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that he was Cain, either, although he
had slain his brother. There was such a thing as pure accident, and the
consequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one's
brother in such wise. Gerald as a boy had accidentally killed his
brother. What then? Why seek to draw a brand and a curse across the
life that had caused the accident? A man can live by accident, and die
by accident. Or can he not? Is every man's life subject to pure
accident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a
universal reference? Or is this not true, is there no such thing as
pure accident? Has EVERYTHING that happens a universal significance?
Has it? Birkin, pondering as he stood there, had forgotten Mrs Crich,
as she had forgotten him.

He did not believe that there was any such thing as accident. It all
hung together, in the deepest sense.

Just as he had decided this, one of the Crich daughters came up,
saying:

'Won't you come and take your hat off, mother dear? We shall be sitting
down to eat in a minute, and it's a formal occasion, darling, isn't
it?' She drew her arm through her mother's, and they went away. Birkin