XVIII

eye shut. Not like that blasted Clifford! A lily-livered hound with never a fuck in him, never had. I like you, my boy. I’ll bet you’ve a good cod on you; oh, you’re a bantam, I can see that. You’re a fighter. Gamekeeper! Ha-ha, by crikey, I wouldn’t trust my game to you! But look here, seriously, what are we going to do about it? The world’s full of blasted old women.”

Seriously, they didn’t do anything about it, except establish the old freemasonry of male sensuality between them.

“And look here, my boy, if ever I can do anything for you, you can rely on me. Gamekeeper! Christ, but it’s rich! I like it! Oh, I like it! Shows the girl’s got spunk. What? After all, you know, she has her own income, moderate, moderate, but above starvation. And I’ll leave her what I’ve got. By God, I will. She deserves it, for showing spunk, in a world of old women. I’ve been struggling to get myself clear of the skirts of old women for seventy years, and haven’t managed it yet. But you’re the man, I can see that.”

“I’m glad you think so. They usually tell me, in a sideways fashion, that I’m the monkey.”

“Oh, they would! My dear fellow, what could you be but a monkey, to all the old women.”

They parted most genially, and Mellors laughed inwardly all the time for the rest of the day.

The following day he had lunch with Connie and Hilda, at some discreet place.

“It’s a very great pity it’s such an ugly situation all round,” said Hilda.

“I had a lot o’ fun out of it,” said he.