XVIII

“I suppose Clifford would take it,” said Connie. “He told me, after last time you talked to him, he wouldn’t mind if I had a child: so long as I went about it discreetly.”

“Only sensible thing he could say, under the circumstances. Then I suppose it’ll be all right.”

“In what way?” said Connie, looking into her father’s eyes. They were big blue eyes rather like her own, but with a certain uneasiness in them, a look sometimes of an uneasy little boy, sometimes a look of sullen selfishness, usually good-humoured and wary.

“You can present Clifford with an heir to all the Chatterleys, and put another baronet in Wragby.”

Sir Malcolm’s face smiled with a half-sensual smile.

“But I don’t think I want to,” she said.

“Why not? Feeling entangled with the other man? Well! If you want the truth from me, my child, it’s this. The world goes on. Wragby stands and will go on standing. The world is more or less a fixed thing, and externally, we have to adapt ourselves to it. Privately, in my private opinion, we can please ourselves. Emotions change. You may like one man this year and another next. But Wragby still stands. Stick by Wragby as far as Wragby sticks by you. Then please yourself. But you’ll get very little out of making a break. You can make a break if you wish. You have an independent income, the only thing that never lets you down. But you won’t get much out of it. Put a little baronet in Wragby. It’s an amusing thing to do.”

And Sir Malcolm sat back and smiled again. Connie did not answer.

“I hope you had a real man at last,” he said to her after a while, sensually alert.