Mrs. Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance’s own age, had been a schoolteacher, but Connie suspected her of being rather a false little thing.

“Why, it’s Lady Chatterley! Why?” And Mrs. Flint’s eyes glowed again, and she flushed like a young girl. “Bell, Bell. Why! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!” She darted forward and slashed at the dog with a white cloth she held in her hand, then came forward to Connie.

“She used to know me,” said Connie, shaking hands. The Flints were Chatterley tenants.

“Of course she knows your Ladyship! She’s just showing off,” said Mrs. Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, “but it’s so long since she’s seen you. I do hope you are better.”

“Yes thanks, I’m all right.”