In those few moments when he was clasped to the warm, passionate body of Kangaroo, Somers’ mind flew with swift thought. “He doesn’t love _me_,” he thought to himself. “He just turns a great general emotion on me, like a tap. I feel as cold as steel, in his clasp--and as separate. It is presumption, his loving me. If he was in any way really _aware_ of me, he’d keep at the other end of the room, as if I was a dangerous little animal. He wouldn’t be hugging me if I were a scorpion. And I _am_ a scorpion. So why doesn’t he know it. Damn his love. He wants to _force_ me.” After a few minutes Kangaroo dropped his arm and turned his back. He stood there, a great, hulked, black back. Somers thought to himself: “If I were a kestrel I’d stoop and strike him straight in the back of the neck, and he’d die. He ought to die.” Then he went and sat in his chair. Kangaroo left the room. He did not come back for some time, and Lovat began to grow uncomfortable. But the devilishness in his heart continued, broken by moments of tenderness or pity or self-doubt. The gentleness was winning, when Kangaroo came in again. And one look at the big, gloomy figure set the devil alert like a flame again in the other man’s heart. Kangaroo took his place before the fire again, but looked aside. “Of course you understand,” he began in a muffled voice, “that it must be one thing or the other. Either you are with me, and I _feel_ you with me: or you cease to exist for me.” Somers listened with wonder. He admired the man for his absoluteness, and his strange blind heroic obsession. “I’m not really against you, am I?” said Somers. And his own heart answered, _Yes you are!_ “You are not _with_ me,” said Kangaroo, bitterly. “No,” said Somers slowly. “Then why have you deceived me, played with me,” suddenly roared Kangaroo. “I could have killed you.” “Don’t do that,” laughed Somers, rather coldly. But the other did not answer. He was like a black cloud. “I want to hear,” said Kangaroo, “your case against me.” “It’s not a case, Kangaroo,” said Richard, “it’s a sort of instinct.” “Against what?” “Why, against your ponderousness. And against your insistence. And against the whole sticky stream of love, and the hateful will-to-love. It’s the will-to-love that I hate, Kangaroo.” “In me?” “In us all. I just hate it. It’s a sort of syrup we _have_ to stew in, and it’s loathsome. Don’t love me. Don’t want to save mankind. You’re so awfully _general_, and your love is so awfully general: as if one were only a cherry in the syrup. Don’t love me. Don’t want me to love you. Let’s be hard, separate men. Let’s understand one another deeper than love.” “Two human ants, in short,” said Kangaroo, and his face was yellow. “No, no. Two men. Let us go to the understanding that is deeper than love.” “Is any understanding deeper than love?” asked Kangaroo with a sneer. “Why, yes, you know it is. At least between men.”