`Ah!Butthatisfunk。You’vegotit：fatedtoit。Andyoushouldliveuptoit。Whohasgiventhecolliersalltheyhavethat’sworthhaving：
　　alltheirpoliticalliberty，andtheireducation，suchasitis，theirsanitation，theirhealth-conditions，theirbooks，theirmusic，everything。
　　Whohasgivenitthem？Havecolliersgivenittocolliers？No!AlltheWragbysandShipleysinEnglandhavegiventheirpart，andmustgoongiving。
　　There’syourresponsibility。’
　　Connielistened，andflushedveryred。
　　`I’dliketogivesomething，’shesaid。`ButI’mnotallowed。Everythingistobesoldandpaidfornow；andallthethingsyoumentionnow，WragbyandShipleysellsthemtothepeople，atagoodprofit。Everythingissold。Youdon’tgiveoneheart-beatofrealsympathy。Andbesides，whohastakenawayfromthepeopletheirnaturallifeandmanhood，andgiventhemthisindustrialhorror？Whohasdonethat？’
　　`AndwhatmustIdo？’heasked，green。`Askthemtocomeandpillageme？’
　　`WhyisTevershallsougly，sohideous？Whyaretheirlivessohopeless？’
　　`TheybuilttheirownTevershall，that’spartoftheirdisplayoffreedom。
　　TheybuiltthemselvestheirprettyTevershall，andtheylivetheirownprettylives。Ican’tlivetheirlivesforthem。Everybeetlemustliveitsownlife。’
　　`Butyoumakethemworkforyou。Theylivethelifeofyourcoal-mine。’
　　`Notatall。Everybeetlefindsitsownfood。Notonemanisforcedtoworkforme。
　　`Theirlivesareindustrializedandhopeless，andsoareours，’shecried。
　　`Idon’tthinktheyare。That’sjustaromanticfigureofspeech，arelicoftheswooninganddie-awayromanticism。Youdon’tlookatallahopelessfigurestandingthere，Conniemydear。’
　　Whichwastrue。Forherdark-blueeyeswereflashing，hercolourwashotinhercheeks，shelookedfullofarebelliouspassionfarfromthedejectionofhopelessness。Shenoticed，illthetussockyplacesofthegrass，cottonyyoungcowslipsstandingupstillblearedintheirdown。
　　Andshewonderedwithrage，whyitwasshefeltCliffordwassowrong，yetshecouldn’tsayittohim，shecouldnotsayexactlywherehewaswrong。
　　`Nowonderthemenhateyou，’shesaid。
　　`Theydon’t!’hereplied。`Anddon’tfallintoerrors：inyoursenseoftheword，theyarenotmen。Theyareanimalsyoudon’tunderstand，andnevercould。Don’tthrustyourillusionsonotherpeople。Themasseswerealwaysthesame，andwillalwaysbethesame。Nero’sslaveswereextremelylittledifferentfromourcolliersortheFordmotor-carworkmen。ImeanNero’smineslavesandhisfieldslaves。Itisthemasses：theyaretheunchangeable。Anindividualmayemergefromthemasses。Buttheemergencedoesn’talterthemass。Themassesareunalterable。Itisoneofthemostmomentousfactsofsocialscience。Panemetcircenses!Onlytodayeducationisoneofthebadsubstitutesforacircus。Whatiswrongtodayisthatwe’vemadeaprofoundhashofthecircusespartoftheprogramme，andpoisonedourmasseswithalittleeducation。’
　　WhenCliffordbecamereallyrousedinhisfeelingsaboutthecommonpeople，Conniewasfrightened。Therewassomethingdevastatinglytrueinwhathesaid。Butitwasatruththatkilled。
　　Seeingherpaleandsilent，Cliffordstartedthechairagain，andnomorewassaidtillhehaltedagainatthewoodgate，whichsheopened。
　　`Andwhatweneedtotakeupnow，’hesaid，`iswhips，notswords。Themasseshavebeenruledsincetimebegan，andtilltimeends，ruledtheywillhavetobe。Itissheerhypocrisyandfarcetosaytheycanrulethemselves。’
　　`Butcanyourulethem？’sheasked。
　　`I？Ohyes!Neithermymindnormywilliscrippled，andIdon’trulewithmylegs。Icandomyshareofruling：absolutely，myshare；andgivemeason，andhewillbeabletorulehisportionafterme。’
　　`Buthewouldn’tbeyourownson，ofyourownrulingclass；orperhapsnot，’shestammered。
　　`Idon’tcarewhohisfathermaybe，solongasheisahealthymannotbelownormalintelligence。Givemethechildofanyhealthy，normallyintelligentman，andIwillmakeaperfectlycompetentChatterleyofhim。
　　Itisnotwhobegetsus，thatmatters，butwherefateplacesus。Placeanychildamongtherulingclasses，andhewillgrowup，tohisownextent，aruler。Putkings’anddukes’childrenamongthemasses，andthey’llbelittleplebeians，massproducts。Itistheoverwhelmingpressureofenvironment。’
　　`Thenthecommonpeoplearen’tarace，andthearistocratsaren’tblood，’
　　shesaid。
　　`No，mychild!Allthatisromanticillusion。Aristocracyisafunction，apartoffate。Andthemassesareafunctioningofanotherpartoffate。
　　Theindividualhardlymatters。Itisaquestionofwhichfunctionyouarebroughtuptoandadaptedto。Itisnottheindividualsthatmakeanaristocracy：
　　itisthefunctioningofthearistocraticwhole。Anditisthefunctioningofthewholemassthatmakesthecommonmanwhatheis。’
　　`Thenthereisnocommonhumanitybetweenusall!’
　　`Justasyoulike。Weallneedtofillourbellies。Butwhenitcomestoexpressiveorexecutivefunctioning，Ibelievethereisagulfandanabsoluteone，betweentherulingandtheservingclasses。Thetwofunctionsareopposed。Andthefunctiondeterminestheindividual。’
　　Connielookedathimwithdazedeyes。
　　`Won’tyoucomeon？’shesaid。
　　Andhestartedhischair。Hehadsaidhissay。Nowhelapsedintohispeculiarandrathervacantapathy，thatConniefoundsotrying。Inthewood，anyhow，shewasdeterminednottoargue。
　　Infrontofthemrantheopencleftoftheriding，betweenthehazelwallsandthegaygreytrees。Thechairpuffedslowlyon，slowlysurgingintotheforget-me-notsthatroseupinthedrivelikemilkfroth，beyondthehazelshadows。Cliffordsteeredthemiddlecourse，wherefeetpassinghadkeptachannelthroughtheflowers。ButConnie，walkingbehind，hadwatchedthewheelsjoltoverthewood-ruffandthebugle，andsquashthelittleyellowcupsofthecreeping-jenny。Nowtheymadeawakethroughtheforget-me-nots。
　　Alltheflowerswerethere，thefirstbluebellsinbluepools，likestandingwater。
　　`Youarequiterightaboutitsbeingbeautiful，’saidClifford。`Itissoamazingly。WhatisquitesolovelyasanEnglishspring!’
　　ConniethoughtitsoundedasifeventhespringbloomedbyactofParliament。
　　AnEnglishspring!WhynotanIrishone？orJewish？Thechairmovedslowlyahead，pasttuftsofsturdybluebellsthatstooduplikewheatandovergreyburdockleaves。Whentheycametotheopenplacewherethetreeshadbeenfelled，thelightfloodedinratherstark。Andthebluebellsmadesheetsofbrightbluecolour，hereandthere，sheeringoffintolilacandpurple。Andbetween，thebrackenwasliftingitsbrowncurledheads，likelegionsofyoungsnakeswithanewsecrettowhispertoEve。Cliffordkeptthechairgoingtillhecametothebrowofthehill；Conniefollowedslowlybehind。Theoak-budswereopeningsoftandbrown。Everythingcametenderlyoutoftheoldhardness。Eventhesnaggycraggyoak-treesputoutthesoftestyoungleaves，spreadingthin，brownlittlewingslikeyoungbat-wingsinthelight。Whyhadmenneveranynewnessinthem，anyfreshnesstocomeforthwith!Stalemen!
　　Cliffordstoppedthechairatthetopoftheriseandlookeddown。Thebluebellswashedbluelikeflood-wateroverthebroadriding，andlitupthedownhillwithawarmblueness。
　　`It’saveryfinecolourinitself，’saidClifford，`butuselessformakingapainting。’
　　`Quite!’saidConnie，completelyuninterested。
　　`ShallIventureasfarasthespring？’saidClifford。
　　`Willthechairgetupagain？’shesaid。
　　`We’lltry；nothingventure，nothingwin!’
　　Andthechairbegantoadvanceslowly，joltinglydownthebeautifulbroadridingwashedoverwithblueencroachinghyacinths。Olastofallships，throughthehyacinthianshallows!Opinnaceonthelastwildwaters，sailinginthelastvoyageofourcivilization!Whither，Oweirdwheeledship，yourslowcoursesteering。Quietandcomplacent，Cliffordsatatthewheelofadventure：inhisoldblackhatandtweedjacket，motionlessandcautious。OCaptain，myCaptain，oursplendidtripisdone!Notyetthough!Downhill，inthewake，cameConstanceinhergreydress，watchingthechairjoltdownwards。
　　Theypassedthenarrowtracktothehut。Thankheavenitwasnotwideenoughforthechair：hardlywideenoughforoneperson。Thechairreachedthebottomoftheslope，andswervedround，todisappear。AndConnieheardalowwhistlebehindher。Sheglancedsharplyround：thekeeperwasstridingdownhilltowardsher，hisdogkeepingbehindhim。
　　`IsSirCliffordgoingtothecottage？’heasked，lookingintohereyes。
　　`No，onlytothewell。’
　　`Ah!Good!ThenIcankeepoutofsight。ButIshallseeyoutonight。
　　Ishallwaitforyouatthepark-gateaboutten。’
　　Helookedagaindirectintohereyes。
　　`Yes，’shefaltered。
　　TheyheardthePapp!Papp!ofClifford’shorn，tootingforConnie。She`Coo-eed!’inreply。Thekeeper’sfaceflickeredwithalittlegrimace，andwithhishandhesoftlybrushedherbreastupwards，fromunderneath。
　　Shelookedathim，frightened，andstartedrunningdownthehill，callingCoo-ee!againtoClifford。Themanabovewatchedher，thenturned，grinningfaintly，backintohispath。
　　ShefoundCliffordslowlymountingtothespring，whichwashalfwayuptheslopeofthedarklarch-wood。Hewastherebythetimeshecaughthimup。
　　`Shedidthatallright，’hesaid，referringtothechair。
　　Connielookedatthegreatgreyleavesofburdockthatgrewoutghostlyfromtheedgeofthelarch-wood。ThepeoplecallitRobinHood’sRhubarb。
　　Howsilentandgloomyitseemedbythewell!Yetthewaterbubbledsobright，wonderful!Andtherewerebitsofeye-brightandstrongbluebugle……Andthere，underthebank，theyellowearthwasmoving。Amole!Itemerged，rowingitspinkhands，andwavingitsblindgimletofaface，withthetinypinknose-tipuplifted。
　　`Itseemstoseewiththeendofitsnose，’saidConnie。
　　`Betterthanwithitseyes!’hesaid。`Willyoudrink？’
　　`Willyou？’
　　Shetookanenamelmugfromatwigonatree，andstoopedtofillitforhim。Hedrankinsips。Thenshestoopedagain，anddrankalittleherself。
　　`Soicy!’shesaidgasping。
　　`Good，isn’tit!Didyouwish？’
　　`Didyou？’
　　`Yes，Iwished。ButIwon’ttell。’
　　Shewasawareoftherappingofawoodpecker，thenofthewind，softandeeriethroughthelarches。Shelookedup。Whitecloudswerecrossingtheblue。
　　`Clouds!’shesaid。
　　`Whitelambsonly，’hereplied。
　　Ashadowcrossedthelittleclearing。Themolehadswumoutontothesoftyellowearth。
　　`Unpleasantlittlebeast，weoughttokillhim，’saidClifford。
　　`Look!he’slikeaparsoninapulpit，’shesaid。
　　Shegatheredsomesprigsofwoodruffandbroughtthemtohim。
　　`New-mownhay!’hesaid。`Doesn’titsmellliketheromanticladiesofthelastcentury，whohadtheirheadsscrewedontherightwayafterall!’
　　Shewaslookingatthewhiteclouds。
　　`Iwonderifitwillrain，’shesaid。
　　`Rain!Why!Doyouwantitto？’
　　Theystartedonthereturnjourney，Cliffordjoltingcautiouslydownhill。
　　Theycametothedarkbottomofthehollow，turnedtotheright，andafterahundredyardsswervedupthefootofthelongslope，wherebluebellsstoodinthelight。
　　`Now，oldgirl!’saidClifford，puttingthechairtoit。
　　Itwasasteepandjoltyclimb。Thechairpuggedslowly，inastrugglingunwillingfashion。Still，shenosedherwayupunevenly，tillshecametowherethehyacinthswereallaroundher，thenshebalked，struggled，jerkedalittlewayoutoftheflowers，thenstopped`We’dbettersoundthehornandseeifthekeeperwillcome，’saidConnie。
　　`Hecouldpushherabit。Forthatmatter，Iwillpush。Ithelps。’
　　`We’llletherbreathe，’saidClifford。`Doyoumindputtingascotchunderthewheel？’
　　Conniefoundastone，andtheywaited。AfterawhileCliffordstartedhismotoragain，thensetthechairinmotion。Itstruggledandfalteredlikeasickthing，withcuriousnoises。
　　`Letmepush!’saidConnie，comingupbehind。
　　`No!Don’tpush!’hesaidangrily。`What’sthegoodofthedamnedthing，ifithastobepushed!Putthestoneunder!’
　　Therewasanotherpause，thenanotherstart；butmoreineffectualthanbefore。
　　`Youmustletmepush，’saidshe。`Orsoundthehornforthekeeper。’
　　`Wait!’
　　Shewaited；andhehadanothertry，doingmoreharmthangood。
　　`Soundthehornthen，ifyouwon’tletmepush，’shesaid。`Hell!Bequietamoment!’
　　Shewasquietamoment：hemadeshatteringeffortswiththelittlemotor。
　　`You’llonlybreakthethingdownaltogether，Clifford，’sheremonstrated；
　　`besideswastingyournervousenergy。’
　　`IfIcouldonlygetoutandlookatthedamnedthing!’hesaid，exasperated。
　　Andhesoundedthehornstridently。`PerhapsMellorscanseewhat’swrong。’
　　Theywaited，amongthemashedflowersunderaskysoftlycurdlingwithcloud。Inthesilenceawood-pigeonbegantocooroo-hoohoo!roo-hoohoo!
　　Cliffordshutherupwithablastonthehorn。
　　Thekeeperappeareddirectly，stridinginquiringlyroundthecorner。
　　Hesaluted。
　　`Doyouknowanythingaboutmotors？’askedCliffordsharply。
　　`IamafraidIdon’t。Hasshegonewrong？’
　　`Apparently!’snappedClifford。
　　Themancrouchedsolicitouslybythewheel，andpeeredatthelittleengine。
　　`I’mafraidIknownothingatallaboutthesemechanicalthings，SirClifford，’hesaidcalmly。`Ifshehasenoughpetrolandoil——’
　　`Justlookcarefullyandseeifyoucanseeanythingbroken，’snappedClifford。
　　Themanlaidhisgunagainstatree，tookoilhiscoat，andthrewitbesideit。Thebrowndogsatguard。Thenhesatdownonhisheelsandpeeredunderthechair，pokingwithhisfingeratthegreasylittleengine，andresentingthegrease-marksonhiscleanSundayshirt。
　　`Doesn’tseemanythingbroken，’hesaid。Andhestoodup，pushingbackhishatfromhisforehead，rubbinghisbrowandapparentlystudying。
　　`Haveyoulookedattherodsunderneath？’askedClifford。`Seeiftheyareallright!’