CHAPTER XIII
On Sunday Clifford wanted to go into the wood. It was a lovely morning, the pear blossom and plum had suddenly appeared in the world, in a wonder of white here and there.
It was cruel for Clifford, while the world bloomed, to have to be helped from chair to bath-chair. But he had forgotten, and even seemed to have a certain conceit of himself in his lameness. Connie still suffered, having to lift his inert legs into place. Mrs. Bolton did it now, or Field.
She waited for him at the top of the drive, at the edge of the screen of beeches, His chair came puffing along with a sort of valetudinarian slow importance. As he joined his wife he said:
"Sir Clifford on his foaming steed!"
"Snorting, at least!" she laughed.
He stopped and looked round at the facade of the long, low old brown house.
"Wragby doesn't wink an eyelid!" he said. "But then why should it! I ride upon the achievements of the mind of man, and that beats a horse."
"I suppose it does. And the souls in Plato riding up to heaven in a two-horse chariot would go in a Ford car now," she said.
"Or a Rolls-Royce: Plato was an aristocrat!"
"Quite! No more black horse to thrash and maltreat. Plato never thought we'd go one better than his black steed and his white steed, and have no steeds at all, only an engine!"
"Only an engine and gas!" said Clifford.
"I hope I can have some repairs done to the old place next year. I think I shall have about a thousand to spare for that: but work costs so much!" he added.
