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Connie would, though she didn’t want to be reminded of what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought and the best teapot.

“If only you wouldn’t take any trouble,” said Connie.

But if Mrs. Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Connie played with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young life! And so fearless! So fearless, because so defenceless. All the older people, so narrow with fear!

She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs. Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight. And they had a real female chat, and both of them enjoyed it.

“It’s a poor little tea, though,” said Mrs. Flint.

“It’s much nicer than at home,” said Connie truthfully.

“Oh-h!” said Mrs. Flint, not believing, of course.

But at last Connie rose.

“I must go,” she said. “My husband has no idea where I am. He’ll be wondering all kinds of things.”

“He’ll never think you’re here,” laughed Mrs. Flint excitedly. “He’ll be sending the crier round.”

“Goodbye, Josephine,” said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair.

Mrs. Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm’s little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There