“It is my own,” said Ursula, and she dangled the little glittering string before the baby. The infant spread its little fingers. But it could not grasp. Ursula closed the tiny hand over the jewel. The baby waved the bright ends of the string. Ursula had given her necklace away. She felt sad. But she did not want it back. The jewel swung from the baby’s hand and fell in a little heap on the coal-dusty bottom of the barge. The man groped for it, with a kind of careful reverence. Ursula noticed the coarsened, blunted fingers groping at the little jewelled heap. The skin was red on the back of the hand, the fair hairs glistened stiffly. It was a thin, sinewy, capable hand nevertheless, and Ursula liked it. He took up the necklace carefully, and blew the coal-dust from it, as it lay in the hollow of his hand. He seemed still and attentive. He held out his hand with the necklace shining small in its hard, black hollow. “Take it back,” he said. Ursula hardened with a kind of radiance. “No,” she said. “It belongs to little Ursula.” And she went to the infant and fastened the necklace round its warm, soft, weak little neck. There was a moment of confusion, then the father bent over his child: “What do you say?” he said. “Do you say thank you? Do you say thank you, Ursula?” “Her name’s Ursula _now_,” said the mother, smiling a little bit ingratiatingly from the door. And she came out to examine the jewel on the child’s neck. “It is Ursula, isn’t it?” said Ursula Brangwen. The father looked up at her, with an intimate, half-gallant, half-impudent, but wistful look. His captive soul loved her: but his soul was captive, he knew, always. She wanted to go. He set a little ladder for her to climb up to the wharf. She kissed the child, which was in its mother’s arms, then she turned away. The mother was effusive. The man stood silent by the ladder. Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young figures crossed the lock, above the shining yellow water. The barge-man watched them go. “I _loved_ them,” she was saying. “He was so gentle—oh, so gentle! And the baby was such a dear!” “Was he gentle?” said Skrebensky. “The woman had been a servant, I’m sure of that.” Ursula winced. “But I loved his impudence—it was so gentle underneath.” She went hastening on, gladdened by having met the grimy, lean man with the ragged moustache. He gave her a pleasant warm feeling. He made her feel the richness of her own life. Skrebensky, somehow, had created a deadness round her, a sterility, as if the world were ashes. They said very little as they hastened home to the big supper. He was envying the lean father of three children, for his impudent directness and his worship of the woman in Ursula, a worship of body and soul together, the man’s body and soul wistful and worshipping the body and spirit of the girl, with a desire that knew the inaccessibility of its object, but was only glad to know that the perfect thing existed, glad to have had a moment of communion.