She was looking at the white clouds.

‘I wonder if it will rain,’ she said.

‘Rain! Why! Do you want it to?’

They started on the return journey, Clifford jolting cautiously downhill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right, and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where bluebells stood in the light.

‘Now, old girl!’ said Clifford, putting the chair to it.

It was a steep and jolty climb. The chair pugged slowly, in a struggling unwilling fashion. Still, she nosed her way up unevenly, till she came to where the hyacinths were all around her, then she balked, struggled, jerked a little way out of the flowers, then stopped

‘We’d better sound the horn and see if the keeper will come,’ said Connie. ‘He could push her a bit. For that matter, I will push. It helps.’

‘We’ll let her breathe,’ said Clifford. ‘Do you mind putting a scotch under the wheel?’

Connie found a stone, and they waited. After a while Clifford started his motor again, then set the chair in motion. It struggled and faltered like a sick thing, with curious noises.

‘Let me push!’ said Connie, coming up behind.

‘No! Don’t push!’ he said angrily. ‘What’s the good of the damned thing, if it has to be pushed! Put the stone under!’

There was another pause, then another start; but more ineffectual than before.

‘You MUST let me push,’ said she. ‘Or sound the horn for the keeper.’

‘Wait!’

She waited; and he had another try, doing more harm than good.

‘Sound the horn then, if you won’t let me push,’ she said. ‘Hell! Be quiet a moment!’

She was quiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little motor.

‘You’ll only break the thing down altogether, Clifford,’ she remonstrated; ‘besides wasting your nervous energy.’

‘If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!’ he said, exasperated. And he sounded the horn stridently. ‘Perhaps Mellors can see what’s wrong.’

They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with cloud. In the silence a wood–pigeon began to coo roo–hoo hoo! roo–hoo hoo! Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.

The keeper appeared directly, striding inquiringly round the corner. He saluted.

‘Do you know anything about motors?’ asked Clifford sharply.

‘I am afraid I don’t. Has she gone wrong?’

‘Apparently!’ snapped Clifford.

The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little engine.

‘I’m afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir Clifford,’ he said calmly. ‘If she has enough petrol and oil—’

‘Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,’ snapped Clifford.

The man laid his gun against a tree, took oil his coat, and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease–marks on his clean Sunday shirt.