Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Hedidnotventuretosayso,forDuncanwasalmostinsaneonthepointofhisart:itwasapersonalcult,apersonalreligionwithhim.

           Theywerelookingatthepicturesinthestudio,andDuncankepthissmallishbrowneyesontheotherman.Hewantedtohearwhatthegame-keeperwouldsay.HeknewalreadyConnie’sandHilda’sopinions.

           ’Itislikeapurebitofmurder,’saidMellorsatlast;aspeechDuncanbynomeansexpectedfromagame-keeper.

           ’Andwhoismurdered?’askedHilda,rathercoldlyandsneeringly.

           ’Me!Itmurdersallthebowelsofcompassioninaman.’

           Awaveofpurehatecameoutoftheartist.Heheardthenoteofdislikeintheotherman’svoice,andthenoteofcontempt.Andhehimselfloathedthementionofbowelsofcompassion.Sicklysentiment!

           Mellorsstoodrathertallandthin,worn-looking,gazingwithflickeringdetachmentthatwassomethinglikethedancingofamothonthewing,atthepictures.

           ’Perhapsstupidityismurdered;sentimentalstupidity,’sneeredtheartist.

           ’Doyouthinkso?Ithinkallthesetubesandcorrugatedvibrationsarestupidenoughforanything,andprettysentimental.Theyshowalotofself-pityandanawfullotofnervousself-opinion,seemstome.’

           Inanotherwaveofhatetheartist’sfacelookedyellow.Butwithasortofsilenthauteurheturnedthepicturestothewall.

           ’Ithinkwemaygotothedining-room,’hesaid.Andtheytrailedoff,dismally.

           Aftercoffee,Duncansaid:

           ’Idon’tatallmindposingasthefatherofConnie’schild.Butonlyontheconditionthatshe’llcomeandposeasamodelforme.