“Good morning, Mrs. Chatterley. Yes, it is. I suppose you’re getting anxious about those—” Constance stopped.
Sophia was now alone with Mr. Scales, for in order to discuss the unnameable freely with Mrs. Chatterley her sister was edging up the counter. Sophia had dreamed of a private conversation as something delicious and impossible. But chance had favoured her. She was alone with him. And his neat fair hair and his blue eyes and his delicate mouth were as wonderful to her as ever. He was gentlemanly to a degree that impressed her more than anything had impressed her in her life. And all the proud and aristocratic instinct that was at the base of her character sprang up and seized on his gentlemanliness like a famished animal seizing on food.
“The last time I saw you,” said Mr. Scales, in a new tone, “you said you were never in the shop.”
“What? Yesterday? Did I?”
“No, I mean the last time I saw you alone,” said he.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s just an accident.”
“That’s exactly what you said last time.”
“Is it?”
Was it his manner, or what he said, that flattered her, that intensified her beautiful vivacity?
“I suppose you don’t often go out?” he went on.