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warm. She walked on unheeding, absorbed in thoughts she was not even conscious of. She was not really aware of anything outside her, till she was startled by the loud barking of the dog at Marehay Farm. Marehay Farm! Its pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neighbours, but it was some time since Connie had called.

“Bell!” she said to the big white bull-terrier. “Bell! have you forgotten me? Don’t you know me?”⁠—She was afraid of dogs, and Bell stood back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through the farmyard on to the warren path.

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.”

“We’ve hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the baby?”

“Well!” Connie hesitated. “Just for a minute.”

Mrs. Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the