and a bit tender to them, even if I put 'em through hell. It's a question of awareness, as Buddha said. But even he fought shy of the bodily awareness, and that natural physical tenderness, which is the best, even between men; in a proper manly way. Makes 'em really manly, not so monkeyish! Ay! it's tenderness, really; it's cunt-awareness. Sex is really only touch, the closest of all touch. And it's touch we're afraid of. We're only half-conscious, and half alive. We've got to come alive and aware. Especially the English have got to get into touch with one another, a bit delicate and a bit tender. It's our crying need."
She looked at him.
"Then why are you afraid of me?" she said.
He looked at her a long time before he answered.
"It's the money, really, and the position. It's the world in you."
"But isn't there tenderness in me?" she said wistfully.
He looked down at her, with darkened, abstract eyes.
"Ay! It comes an' goes, like in me."
"But can't you trust it between you and me?" she asked, gazing anxiously at him.
She saw his face all softening down, losing its armour.
"Maybe!" he said.
They were both silent.
"I want you to hold me in your arms," she said. "I want you to tell me you are glad we are having a child."
She looked so lovely and warm and wistful, his bowels stirred towards her.
"I suppose we can go to my room," he said. "Though it's scandalous again."
But she saw the forgetfulness of the world coming over him again, his face taking the soft, pure look of tender passion.
They walked by the remoter streets to Coburg Square, where he had a room at the top of the house, an attic room where he cooked for himself on a gas ring. It was small, but decent and tidy.
She took off her things, and made him do the same. She was lovely in the soft first flush of her pregnancy.
"I ought to leave you alone," he said.
"No!" she said. "Love me! Love me, and say you'll keep me. Say you'll keep me! Say you'll never let me go, to the world nor to anybody."
