dinner, to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark, and to fetch her from the lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield, only half an hour away, good going. But she was furious. She stored it up against her sister, this baulk in her plans.
Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window sill.
On the strength of her anger, Hilda warmed towards Clifford. After all, he had a mind. And if he had no sex, functionally, all the better: so much the less to quarrel about! Hilda wanted no more of that sex business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. Connie really had less to put up with than many women, if she did but know it.
And Clifford decided that Hilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent woman, and would make a man a first-rate helpmeet, if he were going in for politics for example. Yes, she had none of Connie’s silliness, Connie was more a child: you had to make excuses for her, because she was not altogether dependable.
There was an early cup of tea in the hall, where doors were open to let in the sun. Everybody seemed to be panting a little.
“Goodbye, Connie girl! Come back to me safely.”
“Goodbye, Clifford! Yes, I shan’t be long.” Connie was almost tender.
“Goodbye, Hilda! You will keep an eye on her, won’t you?”
“I’ll even keep two!” said Hilda. “She shan’t go very far astray.”
“It’s a promise!”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Bolton! I know you’ll look after Sir Clifford nobly.”
“I’ll do what I can, your Ladyship.”