He rose, and again picked up his coat, slinging it through the handle of the chair.

“Are you ready, then, Sir Clifford?”

“When you are!”

He stooped and took out the scotch, then put his weight against the chair. He was paler than Connie had ever seen him: and more absent. Clifford was a heavy man: and the hill was steep. Connie stepped to the keeper’s side.

“I’m going to push too!” she said.

And she began to shove with a woman’s turbulent energy of anger. The chair went faster. Clifford looked round.

“Is that necessary?” he said.

“Very! Do you want to kill the man! If you’d let the motor work while it would⁠—”