‘Why, yes, of course, it would wear Lady Chatterley out! It’s a mercy she had a sister to come and help her. Men don’t think, high and low–alike, they take what a woman does for them for granted. Oh, I’ve told the colliers off about it many a time. But it’s very hard for Sir Clifford, you know, crippled like that. They were always a haughty family, standoffish in a way, as they’ve a right to be. But then to be brought down like that! And it’s very hard on Lady Chatterley, perhaps harder on her. What she misses! I only had Ted three years, but my word, while I had him I had a husband I could never forget. He was one in a thousand, and jolly as the day. Who’d ever have thought he’d get killed? I don’t believe it to this day somehow, I’ve never believed it, though I washed him with my own hands. But he was never dead for me, he never was. I never took it in.’

This was a new voice in Wragby, very new for Connie to hear; it roused a new ear in her.

For the first week or so, Mrs Bolton, however, was very quiet at Wragby, her assured, bossy manner left her, and she was nervous. With Clifford she was shy, almost frightened, and silent. He liked that, and soon recovered his self–possession, letting her do things for him without even noticing her.

‘She’s a useful nonentity!’ he said. Connie opened her eyes in wonder, but she did not contradict him. So different are impressions on two different people!

And he soon became rather superb, somewhat lordly with the nurse. She had rather expected it, and he played up without knowing. So susceptible we are to what is expected of us! The colliers had been so like children, talking to her, and telling her what hurt them, while she bandaged them, or nursed them. They had always made her feel so grand, almost super–human in her administrations. Now Clifford made her feel small, and like a servant, and she accepted it without a word, adjusting herself to the upper classes.

She came very mute, with her long, handsome face, and downcast eyes, to administer to him. And she said very humbly: ‘Shall I do this now, Sir Clifford? Shall I do that?’

‘No, leave it for a time. I’ll have it done later.’

‘Very well, Sir Clifford.’

‘Come in again in half an hour.’

‘Very well, Sir Clifford.’

‘And just take those old papers out, will you?’

‘Very well, Sir Clifford.’

She went softly, and in half an hour she came softly again. She was bullied, but she didn’t mind. She was experiencing the upper classes. She neither resented nor disliked Clifford; he was just part of a phenomenon, the phenomenon of the high–class folks, so far unknown to her, but now to be known. She felt more at home with Lady Chatterley, and after all it’s the mistress of the house matters most.

Mrs Bolton helped Clifford to bed at night, and slept across the passage from his room, and came if he rang for her in the night. She also helped him in the morning, and soon valeted him completely, even shaving him, in her soft, tentative woman’s way. She was very good and competent, and she soon knew how to have him in her power. He wasn’t so very different from the colliers after all, when you lathered his chin, and softly rubbed the bristles. The stand–offishness and the lack of frankness didn’t bother her; she was having a new experience.