The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale–blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess.

‘Why, what a dear she is!’ said Connie, ‘and how she’s grown! A big girl! A big girl!’

She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for Christmas.

‘There, Josephine! Who’s that come to see you? Who’s this, Josephine? Lady Chatterley—you know Lady Chatterley, don’t you?’

The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were still all the same to her.

‘Come! Will you come to me?’ said Connie to the baby.

The baby didn’t care one way or another, so Connie picked her up and held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in one’s lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs.

‘I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke’s gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Chatterley? I don’t suppose it’s what you’re used to, but if you would...’

Connie would, though she didn’t want to be reminded of what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought and the best tea–pot.

‘If only you wouldn’t take any trouble,’ said Connie.

But if Mrs Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Connie played with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young life! And so fearless! So fearless, because so defenceless. All the other people, so narrow with fear!

She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight. And they had a real female chat, and both of them enjoyed it.

‘It’s a poor little tea, though,’ said Mrs Flint.

‘It’s much nicer than at home,’ said Connie truthfully.

‘Oh–h!’ said Mrs Flint, not believing, of course.

But at last Connie rose.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘My husband has no idea where I am. He’ll be wondering all kinds of things.’

‘He’ll never think you’re here,’ laughed Mrs Flint excitedly. ‘He’ll be sending the crier round.’

‘Goodbye, Josephine,’ said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair.

Mrs Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm’s little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich.

‘Lovely auriculas,’ said Connie.

‘Recklesses, as Luke calls them,’ laughed Mrs Flint. ‘Have some.’

And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.