change. You may like one man this year and another next. But Wragby still stands. Stick by Wragby as far as Wragby sticks by you. Then please yourself. But you'll get very little out of making a break. You can make a break if you wish. You have an independent income, the only thing that never lets you down. But you won't get much out of it. Put a little baronet in Wragby. It's an amusing thing to do."
And Sir Malcolm sat back and smiled again. Connie did not answer.
"I hope you had a real man at last," he said to her after a while, sensually alert.
"I did. That's the trouble. There aren't many of them about," she said.
"No, by God!" he mused. "There aren't! Well my dear, to look at you, he was a lucky man. Surely he wouldn't make trouble for you?"
"Oh, no! He leaves me my own mistress entirely."
"Quite! Quite! A genuine man would."
Sir Malcolm was pleased. Connie was his favourite daughter, he had always liked the female in her. Not so much of her mother in her as in Hilda. And he had always disliked Clifford. So he was pleased, and very tender with his daughter, as if the unborn child were his child.
He drove with her to Hartland's hotel, and saw her installed: then went round to his club. She had refused his company for the evening.
She found a letter from Mellors. "I won't come round to your hotel, but I'll wait for you outside the Golden Cock in Adam Street at seven."
There he stood, tall and slender, and so different, in a formal suit of thin dark cloth. He had a natural distinction, but he had not the cut-to-pattern look of her class. Yet, she saw at once, he could go anywhere. He had a native breeding which was really much nicer than the cut-to-pattern class thing.
"Ah, there you are! How well you look!"
"Yes! But not you."
She looked in his face anxiously. It was thin, and the cheekbones showed. But his eyes smiled at her, and she felt at home with him. There it was: suddenly, the tension of keeping up her appearances
