"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.