“Yes! He hates to travel as he is.”
“Ay, poor devil!” he said, with sympathy.
There was a pause.
“You won’t forget me when I’m gone, will you?” she asked. Again he lifted his eyes and looked full at her.
“Forget?” he said. “You know nobody forgets. It’s not a question of memory.”
She wanted to say: “What then?” but she didn’t. Instead, she said in a mute kind of voice: “I told Clifford I might have a child.”
Now he really looked at her, intense and searching.
“You did?” he said at last. “And what did he say?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t mind. He’d be glad, really, so long as it seemed to be his.” She dared not look up at him.
He was silent a long time, then he gazed again on her face.
“No mention of me, of course?” he said.
“No. No mention of you,” she said.
“No, he’d hardly swallow me as a substitute breeder.—Then where are you supposed to be getting the child?”
“I might have a love affair in Venice,” she said.
“You might,” he replied slowly. “So that’s why you’re going?”
“Not to have the love affair,” she said, looking up at him, pleading.
“Just the appearance of one,” he said.
There was silence. He sat staring out of the window, with a faint grin, half mockery, half bitterness, on his face. She hated his grin.
“You’ve not taken any precautions against having a child then?” he asked her suddenly. “Because I haven’t.”
“No,” she said faintly. “I should hate that.”
He looked at her, then again with the peculiar subtle grin out of the window. There was a tense silence.
At last he turned to her and said satirically:
“That was why you wanted me then, to get a child?”
She hung her head.
“No. Not really,” she said.
“What then, really?” he asked rather bitingly.
She looked up at him reproachfully, saying: “I don’t know.” He broke into a laugh.
“Then I’m damned if I do,” he said.
There was a long pause of silence, a cold silence.
“Well,” he said at last. “It’s as your Ladyship likes. If you get the baby, Sir Clifford’s welcome to it. I shan’t have lost anything. On the contrary, I’ve had a very nice experience, very nice indeed!” and he stretched in a half suppressed sort of yawn. “If you’ve made use of me,” he said, “it’s not the first time I’ve been made use of; and I don’t suppose it’s ever been as pleasant as this time; though of course one can’t feel tremendously dignified about it.” He stretched again, curiously, his muscles quivering, and his jaw oddly set.
“But I didn’t make use of you,” she said, pleading.
“At your Ladyship’s service,” he replied.
“No,” she said. “I liked your body.”
“Did you?” he replied, and he laughed. “Well then, we’re quits, because I liked yours.”
He looked at her with queer darkened eyes.
“Would you like to go upstairs now?” he asked her, in a strangled sort of voice.
“No, not here. Not now!” she said heavily, though if he had used any power over her, she would have gone, for she had no strength against him.
He turned his face away again, and seemed to forget her.
“I want to touch you like you touch me,” she said. “I’ve never really touched your body.”
He looked at her, and smiled again. “Now?” he said.
“No! No! Not here! At the hut. Would you mind?”
“How do I touch you?” he asked.
“When you feel me.”
He looked at her, and met her heavy, anxious eyes.
“And do you like it when I feel you?” he asked, laughing at her still.
“Yes, do you?” she said.
“Oh, me!” Then he changed his tone. “Yes,” he said. “You know without asking.” Which was true.
She rose and picked up her hat. “I must go,” she said.
“Will you go?” he replied politely.
She wanted him to touch her, to say something to her, but he said nothing, only waited politely.
“Thank you for the tea,” she said.
“I haven’t thanked your Ladyship for doing me the honours of my teapot,” he said.
She went down the path, and he stood in the doorway, faintly grinning. Flossie came running with her tail lifted. And Connie had to plod dumbly across into the wood, knowing he was standing there watching her, with that incomprehensible grin on his face.
She walked home very much downcast and annoyed. She didn’t at all like his saying he had been made use of; because in a sense it was true. But he oughtn’t to have said it. Therefore, again, she was divided between two feelings; resentment against him, and a desire to make it up with him.
She passed a very uneasy and irritated teatime, and at once went up to her room. But when she was there it was no good; she could neither sit nor stand. She would have to do something about it. She would have to go back to the hut; if he was not there, well and good.
She slipped out of the side door, and took her way direct and a little sullen. When she came to the clearing she was terribly uneasy. But there he was again, in his shirtsleeves, stooping, letting the hens out of the coops, among the chicks that were now growing a little gawky, but were much more trim than hen-chickens.
She went straight across to him.
“You see I’ve come!” she said.
“Ay, I see it!” he said, straightening his back, and looking at her with a faint amusement.
“Do you let the hens out now?” she asked.
“Yes, they’ve sat themselves to skin and bone,” he said. “An’ now they’re not all that anxious to come out an’ feed. There’s no self in a sitting hen; she’s all in the eggs or the chicks.”
The poor mother hens; such blind devotion! even to eggs not their own! Connie looked at them in compassion. A helpless silence fell between the man and the woman.
“Shall us go i’ th’ ’ut?” he asked.
“Do you want me?” she asked, in a sort of mistrust.
“Ay, if you want to come.”
She was silent.
“Come then!” he said.
And she went with him to the hut. It was quite dark when he had shut the
