"There's the keeper's empty bottle for his milk," explained Mrs. Flint. "We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself."
"When?" said Connie.
"Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, good-bye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you."
Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. Mrs. Flint went running back across the pasture, in a sunbonnet, because she was really a schoolteacher. Constance didn't like this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flint's baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs. Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that Connie hadn't got, and apparently couldn't have. Yes, Mrs. Flint had flaunted her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn't help it.
She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.
It was the keeper, he stood in the path like Balaam's ass, barring her way.
"How's this?" he said in surprise.
"How did you come?" she panted.
"How did you? Have you been to the hut?"
"No! No! I went to Marehay."
He looked at her curiously, searchingly, and she hung her head a little guiltily.
"And were you going to the hut now?" he asked rather sternly.
"No! I mustn't. I stayed at Marehay. No one knows where I am. I'm late. I've got to run."
"Giving me the slip, like?" he said, with a faint ironic smile.
"No! No. Not that. Only—"
"Why, what else?" he said. And he stepped up to her, and put his arm around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive.
"Oh, not now, not now," she cried, trying to push him away.
