But Connie was preoccupied with her affair with the keeper. After all, Mr Winter, who was really a gentleman and a man of the world, treated her as a person and a discriminating individual; he did not lump her together with all the rest of his female womanhood in his ‘thee’ and ‘tha’.

She did not go to the wood that day nor the next, nor the day following. She did not go so long as she felt, or imagined she felt, the man waiting for her, wanting her. But the fourth day she was terribly unsettled and uneasy. She still refused to go to the wood and open her thighs once more to the man. She thought of all the things she might do—drive to Sheffield, pay visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. At last she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the opposite direction; she would go to Marehay, through the little iron gate in the other side of the park fence. It was a quiet grey day of spring, almost warm. She walked on unheeding, absorbed in thoughts she was not even conscious of She was not really aware of anything outside her, till she was startled by the loud barking of the dog at Marehay Farm. Marehay Farm! Its pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neighbours, but it was some time since Connie had called.

‘Bell!’ she said to the big white bull–terrier. ‘Bell! have you forgotten me? Don’t you know me?’ She was afraid of dogs, and Bell stood back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through the farmyard on to the warren path.

Mrs Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance’s own age, had been a school–teacher, but Connie suspected her of being rather a false little thing.

‘Why, it’s Lady Chatterley! Why!’ And Mrs Flint’s eyes glowed again, and she flushed like a young girl. ‘Bell, Bell. Why! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!’ She darted forward and slashed at the dog with a white cloth she held in her hand, then came forward to Connie.

‘She used to know me,’ said Connie, shaking hands. The Flints were Chatterley tenants.

‘Of course she knows your Ladyship! She’s just showing off,’ said Mrs Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, ‘but it’s so long since she’s seen you. I do hope you are better.’

‘Yes thanks, I’m all right.’

‘We’ve hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the baby?’

‘Well!’ Connie hesitated. ‘Just for a minute.’

Mrs Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the fire. Back came Mrs Flint.

‘I do hope you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘Will you come in here?’

They went into the living–room, where a baby was sitting on the rag hearth rug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A young servant–girl backed down the passage, shy and awkward.