“Let us give it to them,” whispered Ursula. “Look they are getting a home together.”
“I won’t aid abet them in it,” he said petulantly, instantly sympathising with the aloof, furtive youth, against the active, procreant female.
“Oh yes,” cried Ursula. “It’s right for them—there’s nothing else for them.”
“Very well,” said Birkin, “you offer it to them. I’ll watch.”
Ursula went rather nervously to the young couple, who were discussing an iron washstand—or rather, the man was glancing furtively and wonderingly, like a prisoner, at the abominable article, whilst the woman was arguing.
“We bought a chair,” said Ursula, “and we don’t want it. Would you have it? We should be glad if you would.”
The young couple looked round at her, not believing that she could be addressing them.
“Would you care for it?” repeated Ursula. “It’s really very pretty—but—but—” she smiled rather dazzlingly.
The young couple only stared at her, and looked significantly at each other, to know what to do. And the man curiously obliterated himself, as if he could make himself invisible, as a rat can.
“We wanted to give it to you,” explained Ursula, now overcome with confusion and dread of them. She was attracted by the young man. He was a still, mindless creature, hardly a man at all, a creature that the towns have produced, strangely pure-bred and fine in one sense, furtive, quick, subtle. His lashes were dark and long and fine over his eyes, that had no mind in them, only a dreadful kind of subject, inward consciousness, glazed and dark. His dark brows and all his lines, were finely drawn. He would be a dreadful, but wonderful lover to a woman, so marvellously contributed. His legs would be marvellously subtle and alive, under the shapeless, trousers, he had some of the fineness and stillness and silkiness of a dark-eyed, silent rat.