A Chair

When they had felt the mattress, the young woman asked the old man
seated on a stool among his wares, how much it was. He told her, and
she turned to the young man. The latter was ashamed, and selfconscious.
He turned his face away, though he left his body standing there, and
muttered aside. And again the woman anxiously and actively fingered the
mattress and added up in her mind and bargained with the old, unclean
man. All the while, the young man stood by, shamefaced and
down-at-heel, submitting.

'Look,' said Birkin, 'there is a pretty chair.' '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.