He looked into Connie’s eyes, laconic, contemptuous, not hiding his feelings. And again Connie flushed; she felt she had been making a scene, the man did not respect her.

‘What is your name?’ she said playfully to the child. ‘Won’t you tell me your name?’

Sniffs; then very affectedly in a piping voice: ‘Connie Mellors!’

‘Connie Mellors! Well, that’s a nice name! And did you come out with your Daddy, and he shot a pussy? But it was a bad pussy!’

The child looked at her, with bold, dark eyes of scrutiny, sizing her up, and her condolence.

‘I wanted to stop with my Gran,’ said the little girl.

‘Did you? But where is your Gran?’

The child lifted an arm, pointing down the drive. ‘At th’ cottidge.’

‘At the cottage! And would you like to go back to her?’

Sudden, shuddering quivers of reminiscent sobs. ‘Yes!’

‘Come then, shall I take you? Shall I take you to your Gran? Then your Daddy can do what he has to do.’ She turned to the man. ‘It is your little girl, isn’t it?’

He saluted, and made a slight movement of the head in affirmation.

‘I suppose I can take her to the cottage?’ asked Connie.

‘If your Ladyship wishes.’

Again he looked into her eyes, with that calm, searching detached glance. A man very much alone, and on his own.

‘Would you like to come with me to the cottage, to your Gran, dear?’

The child peeped up again. ‘Yes!’ she simpered.

Connie disliked her; the spoilt, false little female. Nevertheless she wiped her face and took her hand. The keeper saluted in silence.

‘Good morning!’ said Connie.

It was nearly a mile to the cottage, and Connie senior was well red by Connie junior by the time the game–keeper’s picturesque little home was in sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as a little monkey, and so self–assured.

At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.

‘Gran! Gran!’

‘Why, are yer back a’ready!’

The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead–brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman.

‘Why, whatever?’ she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside.

‘Good morning!’ said Connie. ‘She was crying, so I just brought her home.’

The grandmother looked around swiftly at the child:

‘Why, wheer was yer Dad?’

The little girl clung to her grandmother’s skirts and simpered.

‘He was there,’ said Connie, ‘but he’d shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset.’

‘Oh, you’d no right t’ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I’m sure! I’m sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn’t ‘ave bothered. Why, did ever you see!’—and the old woman turned to the child: ‘Fancy Lady Chatterley takin’ all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn’t ‘ave bothered!’