“Charming!” cried Ursula. “Oh, charming.”
It was an arm-chair of simple wood, probably birch, but of such fine delicacy of grace, standing there on the sordid stones, it almost brought tears to the eyes. It was square in shape, of the purest, slender lines, and four short lines of wood in the back, that reminded Ursula of harpstrings.
“It was once,” said Birkin, “gilded—and it had a cane seat. Somebody has nailed this wooden seat in. Look, here is a trifle of the red that underlay the gilt. The rest is all black, except where the wood is worn pure and glossy. It is the fine unity of the lines that is so attractive. Look, how they run and meet and counteract. But of course the wooden seat is wrong—it destroys the perfect lightness and unity in tension the cane gave. I like it though—”
“Ah yes,” said Ursula, “so do I.”
“How much is it?” Birkin asked the man.
“Ten shillings.”
“And you will send it—?”
It was bought.
“So beautiful, so pure!” Birkin said. “It almost breaks my heart.” They walked along between the heaps of rubbish. “My beloved country—it had something to express even when it made that chair.”
“And hasn’t it now?” asked Ursula. She was always angry when he took this tone.