“Only warnts legs on ’is.”
The four parted. The young woman thanked them.
“Thank you for the chair—it’ll last till it gives way.”
“Keep it for an ornyment,” said the young man.
“Good afternoon—good afternoon,” said Ursula and Birkin.
“Goo’-luck to you,” said the young man, glancing and avoiding Birkin’s eyes, as he turned aside his head.
The two couples went asunder, Ursula clinging to Birkin’s arm. When they had gone some distance, she glanced back and saw the young man going beside the full, easy young woman. His trousers sank over his heels, he moved with a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with odd self-consciousness now he had the slim old arm-chair to carry, his arm over the back, the four fine, square tapering legs swaying perilously near the granite setts of the pavement. And yet he was somewhere indomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. He had a queer, subterranean beauty, repulsive too.
“How strange they are!” said Ursula.
“Children of men,” he said. “They remind me of Jesus: ‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’”
“But they aren’t the meek,” said Ursula.