One could not. The far ends of the world are not five minutes from Charing Cross, nowadays. While the wireless is active, there are no far ends of the earth. Kings of Dahomey and Lamas of Tibet listen in to London and New York.
Patience! Patience! The world is a vast and ghastly intricacy of mechanism, and one has to be very wary, not to get mangled by it.
Connie confided in her father.
“You see, Father, he was Clifford’s gamekeeper: but he was an officer in the army in India. Only he is like Colonel C. E. Florence, who preferred to become a private soldier again.”
Sir Malcolm, however, had no sympathy with the unsatisfactory mysticism of the famous C. E. Florence. He saw too much advertisement behind all the humility. It looked just like the sort of conceit the knight most loathed, the conceit of self-abasement.
“Where did your gamekeeper spring from?” asked Sir Malcolm irritably.
“He was a collier’s son in Tevershall. But he’s absolutely presentable.”
The knighted artist became more angry.
“Looks to me like a gold-digger,” he said. “And you’re a pretty easy goldmine, apparently.”
“No, Father, it’s not like that. You’d know if you saw him. He’s a man. Clifford always detested him for not being humble.”
“Apparently he had a good instinct, for once.”
What Sir Malcolm could not bear, was the scandal of his daughter’s having an intrigue with a gamekeeper. He did not mind the intrigue: he minded the scandal.
“I care nothing about the fellow. He’s evidently been able to get round you all right. But by God, think of all the talk. Think of your stepmother, how she’ll take it!”
“I know,” said Connie. “Talk is beastly: especially if you live in society. And he wants so much to get his own divorce. I thought we might perhaps say it was another man’s child, and not mention Mellors’ name at all.”
“Another man’s! What other man’s?”
“Perhaps Duncan Forbes. He has been our friend all his life. And he’s a fairly well-known artist. And he’s fond of me.”
“Well, I’m damned! Poor Duncan! And what’s he going to get out of it?”
“I don’t know. But he might rather like it, even.”
“He might, might he? Well, he’s a funny man, if he does. Why you’ve never even had an affair with him, have you?”
“No! But he doesn’t really want it. He only loves me to be near him, but not to touch him.”
“My God, what a generation!”
“He would like me most of all to be a model for him to paint from. Only I never wanted to.”
“God help him! But he looks downtrodden enough for anything.”
“Still, you wouldn’t mind so much the talk about him?”
“My God, Connie, all the bloody contriving!”
“I know! It’s sickening! But what can I do?”
“Contriving, conniving; conniving, contriving! Makes a man think he’s lived too long.”
“Come, Father, if you haven’t done a good deal of contriving and conniving in your time, you may talk.”
“But it was different, I assure you.”
“It’s always different.”
Hilda arrived, also furious, when she heard of the new developments. And she also simply could not stand the thought of a public scandal about her sister and a gamekeeper. Too, too humiliating!
“Why should we not just disappear, separately, to British Columbia, and have no scandal?” said Connie.
But that was no good. The scandal would come out just the same. And if Connie was going with the man, she’d better be able to marry him. This was Hilda’s opinion. Sir Malcolm wasn’t sure. The affair might still blow over.
“But will you see him, Father?”
Poor Sir Malcolm! he was by no means keen on it. And poor Mellors, he was still less keen. Yet the meeting took place: a lunch in a private room at the club, the two men alone, looking one another up and down.
Sir Malcolm drank a fair amount of whiskey, Mellors also drank. And they talked all the while about India, on which the young man was well informed.
This lasted during the meal. Only when coffee was served, and the waiter had gone, Sir Malcolm lit a cigar and said, heartily:
“Well, young man, and what about my daughter?”
The grin flickered on Mellors’s face.
“Well, Sir, and what about her?”
“You’ve got a baby in her all right.”
“I have that honour!” grinned Mellors.
“Honour, by God!” Sir Malcolm gave a little squirting laugh, and became Scotch and lewd. “Honour! How was the going, eh? Good, my boy, what!?”
“Good!”
“I’ll bet it was! Ha-ha! My daughter, chip of the old block, what! I never went back on a good bit of fucking, myself. Though her mother, oh, holy saints!” he rolled his eyes to heaven. “But you warmed her up, oh, you warmed her up, I can see that. Ha-ha! My blood in her! You set fire to her haystack all right. Ha-ha-ha! I was jolly glad of it, I can tell you. She needed it. Oh, she’s a nice girl, she’s a nice girl, and I knew she’d be good going, if only some damned man would set her stack on fire! Ha-ha-ha! A gamekeeper, eh, my boy! Bloody good poacher, if you ask me. Ha-ha! But now, look here, speaking seriously, what are we going to do about it? Speaking seriously, you know!”
Speaking seriously, they didn’t get very far. Mellors, though a little tipsy, was much the soberer of the two. He kept the conversation as intelligent as possible: which isn’t saying much.
“So you’re a gamekeeper! Oh, you’re quite right! That sort of game is worth a man’s while, eh, what? The test of a woman is when you pinch her bottom. You can tell just by the feel of her bottom if she’s going to come up all right. Ha-Ha! I envy you, my
