rted grin:

'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.

'Yes, I don't know why, but they are,' he replied.

They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and looked out on the
town. The dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses.

'And are they going to inherit the earth?' she said.

'Yes--they.'

'Then what are we going to do?' she asked. 'We're not like them--are
we? We're not the meek?'

'No. We've got to live in the chinks they leave us.'

'How horrible!' cried Ursula. 'I don't want to live in chinks.'

'Don't worry,' he said. 'They are the children of men, they like
market-places and street-corners best. That leaves plenty of chinks.'

'All the world,' she said.

'Ah no--but some room.'

The tramcar mounted slowly up the hill, where the ugly winter-grey
masses of houses looked like a vision of hell that is cold and angular.
They sat and looked. Away in the distance was an angry redness of
sunset. It was all cold, somehow small, crowded, and like the end of
the world.

'I don't mind it even then,' said Ursula, looking at the repulsiveness
of it all. 'It doesn't concern me.'

'No more it does,' he replied, holding her hand. 'One needn't see. One
goes one's way. In my world it is sunny and spacious--'

'It is, my love, isn't it?' she cried, hugging near to him on the top
of the tramcar, so that the other passengers stared at them.

'An