the lane to the cottage!” said Connie.
Hilda glanced at it impatiently.
“It’s a frightful pity we can’t go straight off!” she said. “We could have been in Pall Mall by nine o’clock.”
“I’m sorry for your sake,” said Connie, from behind her goggles.
They were soon at Mansfield, that once-romantic, now utterly disheartening colliery town. Hilda stopped at the hotel named in the motorcar book, and took a room. The whole thing was utterly uninteresting, and she was almost too angry to talk. However, Connie had to tell her something of the man’s history.
“ He! He! What name do you call him by? You only say he ,” said Hilda.
“I’ve never called him by any name: nor he me: which is curious, when you come to think of it. Unless we say Lady Jane and John Thomas. But his name is Oliver Mellors.”