The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess.

“Why, what a dear she is!” said Connie, “and how she’s grown! A big girl! A big girl!”

She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for Christmas.

“There, Josephine! Who’s that come to see you? Who’s this, Josephine? Lady Chatterley⁠—you know Lady Chatterley, don’t you?”

The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were still all the same to her.

“Come! Will you come to me?” said Connie to the baby.