He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wild, questioning eyes, and then he realized that his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. “Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence?” he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which he had carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the gray gray parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled dimpled fists.

“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice, reproachfully.

“Have I, though?” the man answered penitently; “I didn’t go for to do it.” As he spoke he unwrapped the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with its little linen apron, all bespoke a mother’s care. The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her companion.

“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the tousy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect gravity, showing the injured part up to him. “That’s what mother used to do. Where’s mother?”

“Mother’s gone. I guess you‘ll see her before long.”

“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she didn’t say good-bye; she most always did if she was just goin’ over to auntie’s for tea, and now she‘s been away three days. Say, it’s awful dry, ain’t it? Ain‘t there no water nor nothing to eat?”

“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You‘ll just need to be patient awhile, and then you’ll be all right. Put your head up ag‘in me like that, and then you’ll feel bullier. It ain‘t easy to talk when your lips is like leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the cards lie. What’s that you‘ve got?”

“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically, holding up two glittering fragments of mica. “When we goes back to home I’ll give them to brother Bob.”

“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said the man confidently. “You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though — you remember when we left the river?”

‘One has to wait,’ said Birkin.

‘Ah God! Waiting! What are we waiting for?’

‘Some old Johnny says there are three cures for ENNUI, sleep, drink, and travel,’ said Birkin.

‘All cold eggs,’ said Gerald. ‘In sleep, you dream, in drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. No, work and love are the two. When you’re not at work you should be in love.’

‘Be it then,’ said Birkin.

‘Give me the object,’ said Gerald. ‘The possibilities of love exhaust themselves.’

‘Do they? And then what?’

‘Then you die,’ said Gerald.

‘So you ought,’ said Birkin.

‘I don’t see it,’ replied Gerald. He took his hands out of his trousers pockets, and reached for a cigarette. He was tense and nervous. He lit the cigarette over a lamp, reaching forward and drawing steadily. He was dressed for dinner, as usual in the evening, although he was alone.

‘There’s a third one even to your two,’ said Birkin. ‘Work, love, and fighting. You forget the fight.’

‘I suppose I do,’ said Gerald. ‘Did you ever do any boxing—?’

‘No, I don’t think I did,’ said Birkin.

‘Ay—’ Gerald lifted his head and blew the smoke slowly into the air.

‘Why?’ said Birkin.

‘Nothing. I thought we might have a round. It is perhaps true, that I want something to hit. It’s a suggestion.’

‘So you think you might as well hit me?’ said Birkin.

‘You? Well! Perhaps—! In a friendly kind of way, of course.’

‘Quite!’ said Birkin, bitingly.

Gerald stood leaning back against the mantel–piece. He looked down at Birkin, and his eyes flashed with a sort of terror like the eyes of a stallion, that are bloodshot and overwrought, turned glancing backwards in a stiff terror.

‘I fell that if I don’t watch myself, I shall find myself doing something silly,’ he said.

‘Why not do it?’ said Birkin coldly.

Gerald listened with quick impatience. He kept glancing down at Birkin, as if looking for something from the other man.

‘I used to do some Japanese wrestling,’ said Birkin. ‘A Jap lived in the same house with me in Heidelberg, and he taught me a little. But I was never much good at it.’

‘You did!’ exclaimed Gerald. ‘That’s one of the things I’ve never ever seen done. You mean jiu–jitsu, I suppose?’

‘Yes. But I am no good at those things—they don’t interest me.’

‘They don’t? They do me. What’s the start?’

‘I’ll show you what I can, if you like,’ said Birkin.

‘You will?’ A queer, smiling look tightened Gerald’s face for a moment, as he said, ‘Well, I’d like it very much.’

‘Then we’ll try jiu–jitsu. Only you can’t do much in a starched shirt.’