The evening was falling. They had passed Bedford. Birkin watched the country, and was filled with a sort of hopelessness. He always felt this, on approaching London.

His dislike of mankind, of the mass of mankind, amounted almost to an illness.

‘“Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles — ”‘ he was murmuring to himself, like a man condemned to death. Gerald, who was very subtly alert, wary in all his senses, leaned forward and asked smilingly:

‘What were you saying?’ Birkin glanced at him, laughed, and repeated:

‘“Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles, Over pastures where the something something sheep Half asleep — ”‘

Gerald