and searching; Connie's blue and veiled and strangely beautiful. Mrs. Bolton was almost sure she had a lover, yet how could it be, and who could it be? Where was there a man?
"Oh, it's so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of company sometimes," said Mrs. Bolton, "I was saying to Sir Clifford, it would do her ladyship a world of good if she'd go out among people more."
"Yes, "m glad I went, and such a quaint dear cheeky baby, Clifford," said Connie. "It's got hair just like spider webs, and bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue china eyes. Of course it's a girl, or it wouldn't be so bold, bolder than any little Sir Francis Drake."
"You're right, my Lady—a regular little Flint. They were always a forward sandy-headed family," said Mrs. Bolton.
"Wouldn't you like to see it, Clifford? I've asked them to tea for you to see it."
"Who?" he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness.
"Mrs. Flint and the baby, next Monday."
"You can have them to tea up in your room," he said.
"Why, don't you want to see the baby," she cried.
"Oh, I'll see it, but I don't want to sit through a teatime with them."
"Oh," said Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes.
She did not really see him, he was somebody else.
"You can have a nice cosy tea up in your room, my Lady, and Mrs. Flint will be more comfortable than if Sir Clifford was there," said Mrs. Bolton.
She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her soul exulted. But who was he? Who was he? Perhaps Mrs. Flint would provide a clue.
Connie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his flesh touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to her, and in a sense holy.
Clifford was very uneasy. He would not let her go after dinner, and she had wanted so much to be alone. She looked at him, but was curiously submissive.
"Shall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it be?" he asked uneasily.
"You read to me," said Connie.
