At the top of the hill they rested, and Connie was glad to let go. She had had fugitive dreams of friendship between these two men: one her husband, the other the father of her child. Now she saw the screaming absurdity of her dreams. The two males were as hostile as fire and water. They mutually exterminated one another. And she realized for the first time what a queer subtle thing hate is. For the first time, she had consciously and definitely hated Clifford, with vivid hate: as if he ought to be obliterated from the face of the earth. And it was strange, how free and full of life it made her feel, to hate him and to admit it fully to herself.—‘Now I’ve hated him, I shall never be able to go on living with him,’ came the thought into her mind.

On the level the keeper could push the chair alone. Clifford made a little conversation with her, to show his complete composure: about Aunt Eva, who was at Dieppe, and about Sir Malcolm, who had written to ask would Connie drive with him in his small car, to Venice, or would she and Hilda go by train.

‘I’d much rather go by train,’ said Connie. ‘I don’t like long motor drives, especially when there’s dust. But I shall see what Hilda wants.’

‘She will want to drive her own car, and take you with her,’ he said.

‘Probably!—I must help up here. You’ve no idea how heavy this chair is.’

She went to the back of the chair, and plodded side by side with the keeper, shoving up the pink path. She did not care who saw.

‘Why not let me wait, and fetch Field? He is strong enough for the job,’ said Clifford.

‘It’s so near,’ she panted.

But both she and Mellors wiped the sweat from their faces when they came to the top. It was curious, but this bit of work together had brought them much closer than they had been before.

‘Thanks so much, Mellors,’ said Clifford, when they were at the house door. ‘I must get a different sort of motor, that’s all. Won’t you go to the kitchen and have a meal? It must be about time.’

‘Thank you, Sir Clifford. I was going to my mother for dinner today, Sunday.’

‘As you like.’

Mellors slung into his coat, looked at Connie, saluted, and was gone. Connie, furious, went upstairs.

At lunch she could not contain her feeling.

‘Why are you so abominably inconsiderate, Clifford?’ she said to him.

‘Of whom?’

‘Of the keeper! If that is what you call ruling classes, I’m sorry for you.’

‘Why?’

‘A man who’s been ill, and isn’t strong! My word, if I were the serving classes, I’d let you wait for service. I’d let you whistle.’

‘I quite believe it.’

‘If he’d been sitting in a chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as you behaved, what would you have done for HIM?’

‘My dear evangelist, this confusing of persons and personalities is in bad taste.’