Gladiatorial

When he saw Birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile.

'By God, Rupert,' he said, 'I'd just come to the conclusion that
nothing in the world mattered except somebody to take the edge off
one's being alone: the right somebody.' The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the other
man. It was the pure gleam of relief. His face was pallid and even
haggard.

'The right woman, I suppose you mean,' said Birkin spitefully.

'Of course, for choice. Failing that, an amusing man.' He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the fire.

'What were you doing?' he asked.

'I? Nothing. I'm in a bad way just now, everything's on edge, and I can
neither work nor play. I don't know whether it's a sign of old age, I'm
sure.' 'You mean you are bored?' 'Bored, I don't know. I can't apply myself. And I feel the devil is
either very present inside me, or dead.' Birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes.

'You should try hitting something,' he said.

Gerald smiled.

'Perhaps,' he said. 'So long as it was something worth hitting.' 'Quite!' said Birkin, in his soft voice. There was a long pause during
which each could feel the presence of the other.

'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.