“We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred—we can get in the car there.”
“So we can,” he answered, going with her.
They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred white puppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to see them.
“Look!” she cried. “Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seems perfect. Isn’t it a sweetling? But it isn’t so nice as its mother.” She turned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her.
“My dearest Lady Crich,” she said, “you are beautiful as an angel on earth. Angel—angel—don’t you think she’s good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won’t they—and especially my darling Lady Crich! Mrs Marshall, I say!”
“Yes, Miss Winifred?” said the woman, appearing at the door.
“Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you? Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred.”
“I’ll tell him—but I’m afraid that’s a gentleman puppy, Miss Winifred.”
“Oh no!” There was the sound of a car. “There’s Rupert!” cried the child, and she ran to the gate.
Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate.