‘Don’t do it!’ cried Connie to him.

‘If you’ll pull the wheel that way, so!’ he said to her, showing her how.

‘No! You mustn’t lift it! You’ll strain yourself,’ she said, flushed now with anger.

But he looked into her eyes and nodded. And she had to go and take hold of the wheel, ready. He heaved and she tugged, and the chair reeled.

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Clifford in terror.

But it was all right, and the brake was off. The keeper put a stone under the wheel, and went to sit on the bank, his heart beat and his face white with the effort, semi–conscious.

Connie looked at him, and almost cried with anger. There was a pause and a dead silence. She saw his hands trembling on his thighs.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she asked, going to him.

‘No. No!’ He turned away almost angrily.

There was dead silence. The back of Clifford’s fair head did not move. Even the dog stood motionless. The sky had clouded over.

At last he sighed, and blew his nose on his red handkerchief.

‘That pneumonia took a lot out of me,’ he said.

No one answered. Connie calculated the amount of strength it must have taken to heave up that chair and the bulky Clifford: too much, far too much! If it hadn’t killed him!

He rose, and again picked up his coat, slinging it through the handle of the chair.

‘Are you ready, then, Sir Clifford?’

‘When you are!’

He stooped and took out the scotch, then put his weight against the chair. He was paler than Connie had ever seen him: and more absent. Clifford was a heavy man: and the hill was steep. Connie stepped to the keeper’s side.

‘I’m going to push too!’ she said.

And she began to shove with a woman’s turbulent energy of anger. The chair went faster. Clifford looked round.

‘Is that necessary?’ he said.

‘Very! Do you want to kill the man! If you’d let the motor work while it would—’

But she did not finish. She was already panting. She slackened off a little, for it was surprisingly hard work.

‘Ay! slower!’ said the man at her side, with a faint smile of his eyes.

‘Are you sure you’ve not hurt yourself?’ she said fiercely.

He shook his head. She looked at his smallish, short, alive hand, browned by the weather. It was the hand that caressed her. She had never even looked at it before. It seemed so still, like him, with a curious inward stillness that made her want to clutch it, as if she could not reach it. All her soul suddenly swept towards him: he was so silent, and out of reach! And he felt his limbs revive. Shoving with his left hand, he laid his right on her round white wrist, softly enfolding her wrist, with a caress. And the flame of strength went down his back and his loins, reviving him. And she bent suddenly and kissed his hand. Meanwhile the back of Clifford’s head was held sleek and motionless, just in front of them.