waiting for the rabbit and the fire to cook it.'

'So while you get the coal I must chase the rabbit?' said Birkin,
mocking at Gerald.

'Something like that,' said Gerald.

Birkin watched him narrowly. He saw the perfect good-humoured
callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in Gerald, glistening
through the plausible ethics of productivity.

'Gerald,' he said, 'I rather hate you.'

'I know you do,' said Gerald. 'Why do you?'

Birkin mused inscrutably for some minutes.

'I should like to know if you are conscious of hating me,' he said at
last. 'Do you ever consciously detest me--hate me with mystic hate?
There are odd moments when I hate you starrily.'

Gerald was rather taken aback, even a little disconcerted. He did not
quite know what to say.

'I may, of course, hate you sometimes,' he said. 'But I'm not aware of
it--never acutely aware of it, that is.'

'So much the worse,' said Birkin.

Gerald watched him with curious eyes. He could not quite make him out.