The keeper stood back: then turned to fetch his coat and gun. The chair seemed to strange immediately. She stood inert. Clifford, seated a prisoner, was white with vexation. He jerked at the levers with his hand, his feet were no good. He got queer noises out of her. In savage impatience he moved little handles and got more noises out of her. But she would not budge. No, she would not budge. He stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger.

Constance sat on the bank arid looked at the wretched and trampled bluebells. ‘Nothing quite so lovely as an English spring.’ ‘I can do my share of ruling.’ ‘What we need to take up now is whips, not swords.’ ‘The ruling classes!’

The keeper strode up with his coat and gun, Flossie cautiously at his heels. Clifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine. Connie, who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors, and who had had experience of breakdowns, sat patiently on the bank as if she were a cipher. The keeper lay on his stomach again. The ruling classes and the serving classes!

He got to his feet and said patiently:

‘Try her again, then.’

He spoke in a quiet voice, almost as if to a child.

Clifford tried her, and Mellors stepped quickly behind and began to push. She was going, the engine doing about half the work, the man the rest.

Clifford glanced round, yellow with anger.

‘Will you get off there!’

The keeper dropped his hold at once, and Clifford added: ‘How shall I know what she is doing!’

The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat. He’d done.

The chair began slowly to run backwards.

‘Clifford, your brake!’ cried Connie.

She, Mellors, and Clifford moved at once, Connie and the keeper jostling lightly. The chair stood. There was a moment of dead silence.

‘It’s obvious I’m at everybody’s mercy!’ said Clifford. He was yellow with anger.

No one answered. Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his face queer and expressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The dog Flossie, standing on guard almost between her master’s legs, moved uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much perplexed between the three human beings. The TABLEAU VIVANT remained set among the squashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word.

‘I expect she’ll have to be pushed,’ said Clifford at last, with an affectation of SANG FROID.

No answer. Mellors’ abstracted face looked as if he had heard nothing. Connie glanced anxiously at him. Clifford too glanced round.

‘Do you mind pushing her home, Mellors!’ he said in a cool superior tone. ‘I hope I have said nothing to offend you,’ he added, in a tone of dislike.

‘Nothing at all, Sir Clifford! Do you want me to push that chair?’

‘If you please.’

The man stepped up to it: but this time it was without effect. The brake was jammed. They poked and pulled, and the keeper took off his gun and his coat once more. And now Clifford said never a word. At last the keeper heaved the back of the chair off the ground and, with an instantaneous push of his foot, tried to loosen the wheels. He failed, the chair sank. Clifford was clutching the sides. The man gasped with the weight.