But Connie’s heart simply stood still at the thought of abandoning Clifford there and then. She couldn’t do it. No...no! She just couldn’t. She had to go back to Wragby.

Michaelis was disgusted. Hilda didn’t like Michaelis, but she ALMOST preferred him to Clifford. Back went the sisters to the Midlands.

Hilda talked to Clifford, who still had yellow eyeballs when they got back. He, too, in his way, was overwrought; but he had to listen to all Hilda said, to all the doctor had said, not what Michaelis had said, of course, and he sat mum through the ultimatum.

‘Here is the address of a good manservant, who was with an invalid patient of the doctor’s till he died last month. He is really a good man, and fairly sure to come.’

‘But I’m NOT an invalid, and I will NOT have a manservant,’ said Clifford, poor devil.

‘And here are the addresses of two women; I saw one of them, she would do very well; a woman of about fifty, quiet, strong, kind, and in her way cultured...’

Clifford only sulked, and would not answer.

‘Very well, Clifford. If we don’t settle something by to–morrow, I shall telegraph to Father, and we shall take Connie away.’

‘Will Connie go?’ asked Clifford.

‘She doesn’t want to, but she knows she must. Mother died of cancer, brought on by fretting. We’re not running any risks.’

So next day Clifford suggested Mrs Bolton, Tevershall parish nurse. Apparently Mrs Betts had thought of her. Mrs Bolton was just retiring from her parish duties to take up private nursing jobs. Clifford had a queer dread of delivering himself into the hands of a stranger, but this Mrs Bolton had once nursed him through scarlet fever, and he knew her.

The two sisters at once called on Mrs Bolton, in a newish house in a row, quite select for Tevershall. They found a rather good–looking woman of forty–odd, in a nurse’s uniform, with a white collar and apron, just making herself tea in a small crowded sitting–room.

Mrs Bolton was most attentive and polite, seemed quite nice, spoke with a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct English, and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good many years, had a very good opinion of herself, and a fair amount of assurance. In short, in her tiny way, one of the governing class in the village, very much respected.

‘Yes, Lady Chatterley’s not looking at all well! Why, she used to be that bonny, didn’t she now? But she’s been failing all winter! Oh, it’s hard, it is. Poor Sir Clifford! Eh, that war, it’s a lot to answer for.’

And Mrs Bolton would come to Wragby at once, if Dr Shardlow would let her off. She had another fortnight’s parish nursing to do, by rights, but they might get a substitute, you know.

Hilda posted off to Dr Shardlow, and on the following Sunday Mrs Bolton drove up in Leiver’s cab to Wragby with two trunks. Hilda had talks with her; Mrs Bolton was ready at any moment to talk. And she seemed so young! The way the passion would flush in her rather pale cheek. She was forty–seven.