‘Yes!’ she said, ‘he might have another. Otherwise we could have one made from the one you have. It would only take a day or so, I suppose. You could spare your key for so long.’

‘Ah canna tell yer, m’Lady! Ah know nob’dy as ma’es keys round ‘ere.’

Connie suddenly flushed with anger.

‘Very well!’ she said. ‘I’ll see to it.’

‘All right, your Ladyship.’

Their eyes met. His had a cold, ugly look of dislike and contempt, and indifference to what would happen. Hers were hot with rebuff.

But her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her, when she went against him. And she saw him in a sort of desperation.

‘Good afternoon!’

‘Afternoon, my Lady!’ He saluted and turned abruptly away. She had wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in him, anger against the self–willed female. And he was powerless, powerless. He knew it!

And she was angry against the self–willed male. A servant too! She walked sullenly home.

She found Mrs Bolton under the great beech–tree on the knoll, looking for her.

‘I just wondered if you’d be coming, my Lady,’ the woman said brightly.

‘Am I late?’ asked Connie.

‘Oh only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea.’

‘Why didn’t you make it then?’

‘Oh, I don’t think it’s hardly my place. I don’t think Sir Clifford would like it at all, my Lady.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Connie.

She went indoors to Clifford’s study, where the old brass kettle was simmering on the tray.

‘Am I late, Clifford?’ she said, putting down the few flowers and taking up the tea–caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and scarf. ‘I’m sorry! Why didn’t you let Mrs Bolton make the tea?’

‘I didn’t think of it,’ he said ironically. ‘I don’t quite see her presiding at the tea–table.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea–pot,’ said Connie.

He glanced up at her curiously.

‘What did you do all afternoon?’ he said.

‘Walked and sat in a sheltered place. Do you know there are still berries on the big holly–tree?’

She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea. The toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea–cosy over the tea–pot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers hung over, limp on their stalks.

‘They’ll revive again!’ she said, putting them before him in their glass for him to smell.

‘Sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,’ he quoted.

‘I don’t see a bit of connexion with the actual violets,’ she said. ‘The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.’

She poured him his tea.

‘Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from John’s Well, where the pheasants are reared?’ she said.