"I do hope you'll excuse me," she said. "Will you come in here."
They went into the living-room, where a baby was sitting on the rag hearthrug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A young servant-girl backed down the passage, shy and awkward.
The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess.
"Why, what a dear she is!" said Connie, "and how she's grown! A big girl! A big girl!"
She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for Christmas.
"There, Josephine! Who's that come to see you? Who's this, Josephine? Lady Chatterley—you know Lady Chatterley, don't you?"
The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were still all the same to her.
"Come! Will you come to me?" said Connie to the baby.
The baby didn't care one way or another, so Connie picked her up and held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in one's lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs.
"I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke's gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Chatterley? I don't suppose it's what you're used to, but if you would."