No one answered. Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his face queer and expressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The dog Flossie, standing on guard almost between her master’s legs, moved uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much perplexed between the three human beings. The tableau vivant remained set among the squashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word.

“I expect she’ll have to be pushed,” said Clifford at last, with an affectation of sang froid.

No answer. Mellors’ abstracted face looked as if he had heard nothing. Connie glanced anxiously at him. Clifford too glanced round.

“Do you mind pushing her home, Mellors!” he said in a cool, superior tone. “I hope I have said nothing to offend you,” he added, in a tone of dislike.

“Nothing at all, Sir Clifford! Do you want me to push that chair?”