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     One afternoon,  as Ursula wandered along the course of a
bright little stream near Willey Water, she came upon Birkin, fixing
a small boat. The moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and
came forward, saying:  "How do you do? Help me get the boat in
the water, will you?"  he asked.
     With combined efforts they turned over the heavy boat and set
it in the water.  In a moment he was with her again, and she
stepped into the wet boat. They landed under a willow tree. Ursula
looked at him closely. She had not see,n him since Breadalby. He
was very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face.
      "You have been iii,  haven't you?"  she asked, rather re-
pulsed.
      "Yes,"  he replied coldly.
      "Has it made you frightened?"  she asked.
      "What of"  he asked, turning his eyes to look at her.
      "It is frightening to be very iii, isn't it?"  she said.
      "It isn't pleasant,"  he said. "Whether one is really afraid of
death, or not, I have never decided. In one mood, not a bit, in an-
other, very much. I don't know what really to do."
      "Why should you always be doing?"  she retorted. "I think it
is much better to do nothing but just be oneself, like a blossoming
flower. And why is it,"  she asked at length, "that there is no
flowering, no dignity of human life now?"
      "The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dryrotten, really.
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 Human lives have no significance any longer    their insides are
full of bitter, corrupt ash."
     "But there are good people,"  protested Ursula.
     "Good enough for the life of today. But mankind is a dead
tree."
     "And if it is so, why is it?"  she asked, hostile. They were
rousing each other to a fine passion of opposition.
     "Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they
won't fall off the tree when they're ripe. They hang on to their old
positions when the position is over-past, till they become mined
with little worms and dry-rot."
     "But even if everybodv is wrong -- where are you right?"
she cried, "where are you any better?"
     "I?    I'm not fight,"  he cried back. "At least my only right-
ness lies in the fact that I know it. I detest what I am. I hate myself
as a human being. Humanity is a huge lie, and a huge lie is less
than a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than the individual,
because the individual may sometimes be capable of troth, and hu-
manity is a tree of lies."
     "But,"  said Ursula sadly, "that doesn't alter the fact that
love is the greatest, does it? What they do doesn't alter the troth of
what they say, does it?"