all her clothes, and looked at herself naked in the huge mirror. She did not know what she

frail, easily hurt, rather pathetic thing a human bod

y. She was not very tall, a bit Scottish and short; but she had a certain fluent, down-slipping grace that might have been beauty. Her sk

flattening and going a little harsh. It was as if it had not h

succeeded in becoming boyish, and unsubstantial

d when she was young, in the days of her German boy, who really loved her physically. Then it was young and expectant, with a real look of its own. Now it was going slack, and a litt

ld at twenty-seven, with no gleam and sparkle in the flesh. Old through neglect and denial, yes, denial. Fashionable women kept their bodies bright like delicate porcelain, b

longish slope of her haunches and her buttocks had lost its gleam and its sense of richness. Gone! Only the German boy had loved it, and he was ten years dead, very nearly. How time went by! Ten years dead, and she was only twenty-seven. The healthy boy with his

, and the slumberous, round stillness of the buttocks. Like hillocks of sand, the Arabs say, soft and downward-slippin

, with a slack sort of thinness, almost withered, going old before it had ever re

her bitterness burned a cold indignation against Clifford, and his writings and hi

of deep physical injustice

for he had no man, and refused a woman-servant. The housekeeper's husband, who had known him as a boy, helped him, and did any heavy li

when Mrs Betts, the housekeeper, attended to Clifford. He, as was inevitable in

of injustice is a dangerous feeling, once it is awakened. It must have outlet, or it eats away the one in whom it is a

warm, nor even kind, only thoughtful, considerate, in a well-bred, cold sort of way! But never warm as a man can be warm to a woman, as even Connie's father

lass and race. Then you could keep yourself cold and be very estimable, and hold your own, and enjoy the satisfaction of holding it. But if you were of another class and another race it wouldn't do; there was no fun merely holding your own, and

that was as corrupt as any low-born Jew, in craving for prostitution to the bitch-goddess, Success. Even Clifford's cool and contactless assurance that he belonged to the ruling class didn't prevent his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as

ad even more need of her. Any good nurse can attend to crippled legs! And as for the hero

est families, and had the character to carry it off. Connie liked her, she was so perfectly simple and [rank, as far as she intended to be frank, and superficially kind. Inside herself she was a past-mistress in

rm into her woman's soul with the sharp

any budding genius myself, and there he is, all the rage.' Aunt Eva was quite complacently proud of Clifford

nk it's my doing

else's. And it seems to me you

ow

said to Clifford: If that child rebels

r denies me anythi

m. `A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it. Believe

ive my life

all right for him, but what are they for you? If I were you I should think it wasn't good enough. Yo

o contemplative silence

didn't feel really smart, it wasn't interesting. And she did feel the peculiar, withering coldness under i

Olive. The talk was much more desultory than when only the cronies were there, and everybody was

ture, when babies would be bred in bo

a woman can live her own life.' Strang

unized?' Winterslow asked

e future's going to have more sense, and a wom

t off into space alt

l disabilities,' said Clifford. `All the love-business for example, it migh

hat might leave all t

went, something else would take its place. Morphia, perhaps. A little mor

turdays, for a cheerful weekend!' said Jack. `Soun

you begin to be aware of your body, you are wretched. So, if civilization is any good, it

Winterslow. `It's quite time man began to improve on

ted like tobacco sm

tion is going to fall. It's going down the bottomless pit, down the chasm

possible, Genera

ation is going to coll

come after it?'

ea, but something, I suppo

men, and babies in bottles, and Dukes says the phallus is the bridge

,' said Olive. `Only hurry up with the bre

from us? We're not men, and the women aren't women. We're only cerebrating make-shifts, mechanical and intellectual experiments. There may even come a civilization of gen

o talk about real women,

e spirit in us is worth h

ack, drinking his

he resurrection of t

stone away a bit, the money and the rest. Then we'll get

h, the resurrection of the body!' She didn't at all know what

all, by Clifford, by Aunt Eva, by Olive and Jack, and Winterslow, and even

d her about herself Even Tommy Dukes insisted she was not well, though she said she was all right. Only she began to be afraid of the ghastly white tombstones, that peculiar loathsome whiteness of Carrara marble, detestable as false teeth, which stuck up on the hillside, under Tevershall church, and which she

tle cri du coeur to her sister, Hilda. `I'm not well

g herself in a nimble two-seater. Up the drive she came, tooting up the incline, then sweeping roun

s. Hilda pulled up her car, go

cried. `Whatever

sisters had the same rather golden, glowing skin, and soft brown hair, and naturally strong, warm physique

r breathless voice that both sisters had alike. Hilda w

'm bored,' said Connie

was a woman, soft and still as she seemed, of

umbering Wragby with real hate. She looked soft and warm hersel

m her. His wife's family did not have his sort of manners, or his sort of etiquette. He con

inent, his expression inscrutable, but well-bred. Hilda thought it sulky and stupid, and he waited. He had an air of aplomb, but

im with her beautiful, glowering grey eyes. She looked so maidenly, so

ttle thinne

done anythi

, with his suavest English stiffness,

s not her forte, nor Connie's; so she glowered, and he w

aid Hilda at length. `Can you

raid I

o London, where we ha

ith rage, Cliffo

,' said Hilda, pulling off her gloves,

g the whites of his eyes were a little yellow too. He ran

rvant,' said Hilda as they sat, with apparent calmness, at coffee after dinner. She spoke in her

so?' he s

, or Father and I must take Connie awa

can't

ing at him full stare. He looked rather like a huge

will discuss

scussed it with

ause they left him no real privacy. And a manservant!...he couldn't stan

like an Easter lamb, rather small beside Hilda, who held the w

e's nothing organically wrong, but it won't do! It won't do! Tell Sir Clifford he's got to bring you to town, or take you abroad, and amuse you. You've got to be amused, got to! Your vitality is much too low; no reserves, no reserves. The nerves of the heart a bit queer already: oh, yes! Nothing but nerves; I'd put you righ

aw, and that me

ily! Go on, come to Sicily with me. It's lovely there just now. You want sun! You want life! Why, you're wasting away! Come away with me! Come to Africa! Oh, hang Sir Clifford! Chuck him, and come along with me. I'll marry you the m

abandoning Clifford there and then. She couldn't do it.

chaelis, but she almost preferred him to Clif

n his way, was overwrought; but he had to listen to all Hilda said, to all the doctor

an invalid patient of the doctor's till he died last m

I will not have a manservant,

of them, she would do very well; a woman of about fi

sulked, and wo

omething by to-morrow, I shall telegraph t

e go?' aske

ust. Mother died of cancer, brought on by

on was just retiring from her parish duties to take up private nursing jobs. Clifford had a queer dread of delivering

or Tevershall. They found a rather good-looking woman of forty-odd, in a nurse's uniform

t English, and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good many years, had a very good opinion of herself, and a

at bonny, didn't she now? But she's been failing all winter! Oh, it's h

ould let her off. She had another fortnight's parish nursing

Wragby with two trunks. Hilda had talks with her; Mrs Bolton was ready at any moment to talk. And

ildren, one a baby in arms. Oh, the baby was married now, Edith, to a young man in Boots Cash Chemists in Sheffield. The other one was a schoolteacher in C

down; she wanted to have a little shop. But they said she'd no doubt squander it, perhaps in drink! So she had to draw it thirty shillings a week. Yes, she had to go every Monday morning down to the offices, and stand there a couple of hours waiting her turn; yes, for almost four years she went every Monday. And what could she do with two little children on her hands? But Ted's mother was very good to her. When the baby could toddle she'd keep both the children for the day, while she, Ivy Bolton, went to Sheffield, and attended classes in ambulance, and then the fourth year sh

aid about Ted, for he was as steady and fearless a chap as ever set foot on the cage, and it was

The masters! In a dispute between masters and men, she was always for the men. But when there was no question of contest, she was pining to be superior, to be one of the upper class. The upper classes fascinated her, appealing to her peculiar English passion for su

know, crippled like that. They were always a haughty family, standoffish in a way, as they've a right to be. But then to be brought down like that! And it's very hard on Lady Chatterley, perhaps harder on her. What she misses! I only had Ted three years, but my word, while I had him I ha

y, very new for Connie to hea

eft her, and she was nervous. With Clifford she was shy, almost frightened, and silent. He liked tha

er eyes in wonder, but she did not contradict him. S

us! The colliers had been so like children, talking to her, and telling her what hurt them, while she bandaged them, or nursed them. They had always made her feel so grand,

ncast eyes, to administer to him. And she said very humbl

a time. I'll hav

l, Sir Cl

ain in half

l, Sir Cl

hose old papers

l, Sir Cl

es. She neither resented nor disliked Clifford; he was just part of a phenomenon, the phenomenon of the high-class folks, so far unkno

him completely, even shaving him, in her soft, tentative woman's way. She was very good and competent, and she soon knew how to have him in her power. He wasn't so very different from

ed, he said to himself, the real flower of the intimacy between him and her. But Connie didn't mind that. The fine flower of their int

thank Heaven she had loosened them! She was so glad to be alone, not always to have to talk to him. When he was alone he tapped-tapped-tapped on a typewriter, to infinity. But when he was not `working', and she was there, he talked, always

o more, and the plant was dying. Now quietly, subtly, she was unravelling the tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the threads gently, one by one, wit

. But now she could arrange that Mrs Bolton should come at ten to disturb them. At ten o

to the doors of Clifford's study, when before they were so remote. For Mrs Betts would sometimes sit in Mrs Bolton's room, and Connie heard their lowered voices, and felt som

But still she was afraid of how many of her roots, perhaps mortal ones, were tangled wi